


The Bonny Prince Kennedy

by the_desk_fairy



Category: Kennedy Family RPF, Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Civil Rights, F/M, Groovy 60s vibes, Jamie through the stones, Jamie writes for the Boston Globe, Sex Drugs and Jamie Fraser, Smut, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_desk_fairy/pseuds/the_desk_fairy
Summary: Jamie and Claire return to Boston 1967, right into the thick of political drama over the Vietnam War and Civil Rights. How will Claire and Jamie adjust to the modern world? Can Jamie handle the 1960s?It's the Frasers just how you like them: brave, passionate and whip smart -only now they're against the backdrop of the wild sixties, fighting to protect their family and stop a much deadlier, dangerous war.*If you dig the 1960s flashback scenes in the Season 5 finale, you're going to love this fic.
Relationships: Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie & Roger MacKenzie Wakefield, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Robert F. Kennedy/Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis
Comments: 284
Kudos: 179





	1. Craigh na Dun May 1, 1765

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! This is my first ever attempt at writing fan fiction and I'm really excited to explore my favorite characters from Outlander in the backdrop of one of my favorite years in American history! All the historical references and places are real —I am having such a blast fitting Claire and Jamie into these moments and places!
> 
> Please comment below and let me know how I'm doing, what's working for you and what you'd like to see!

**Prologue:**

When I was a child I decided to become a nurse.

At the time I had very little notion of what nurses did, and I could not have understood the arduous duties of repairing the very fabric of hurting people.

I wanted to be a nurse because at the very height of my own pain, the moment I sat in my hospital bed covered in cuts and bruises from the car accident that claimed my parents, a nurse sat with me.   


After delivering the most devastating news of my life thus far, the nurse knelt by my bed, my eyes fixed on the crisp lines of her uniform searching for some kind of order to steady the chaotic tangle of my emotions. She grasped my hand and looked straight into my soul with her clear blue eyes.

“Dear girl,” She said. “This pain will crash over ye but ye canna let it capsize ye. Ye must keep moving.”

Since that day I have been moving: a formidable force pressing right through the ranks of the nurses who inspired me to create order from disordered flesh. In my efforts to stitch together the fragments inside myself, I found I had risen to the top of my field.

Pain lives inside all of us and usually there is nothing we can do except to feel it and keep moving, but the pain outside of us demands our attention, our comfort, our healing hands. Pain can either drive us to tear one another apart, or it can push us to seek out the wrongs we can right, the wounds we can suture and the injustices we can stand against.

I have known pain, perhaps more than some, but I am a surgeon -and God fucking damn anyone who would dare stand in my way right now, in this moment of chaos.

_ Keep moving, Beauchamp _

**Beltane, May 1 1765**

The sound filled me with dread, a heavy buzzing that resonated in my core and hummed between my ears like a living migraine. The power of it seemed to increase with every encounter like a concussion. Yet this sensation, as powerful as it was, could barely distract me from rising anxiety surging in my chest. I had to ask him.

“Can you hear it?” I swerved around on a switchback in the grassy trail and looked at him. “Jamie Fraser.” My throat hitched. _What if he still couldn’t hear the stones?_ He looked up at me from down the steep path and squinted his cat-like eyes, his face hiding all emotion.

“Lass.” He said finally. “I can hear yon stones. I’m coming wi’ ye to meet my daughter.”

Relief flooded my whole body, I turned back to the path and continued plodding up the hill, panting at the exertion. He could hear the stones, surely we would make it back to Brianna’s time. I could still see her long red hair, so achingly like her father’s, as she stood on the hill with tall Roger and the bent, ancient form of the Reverend Wakefield. Tears still sprang into my eyes when I thought about how kind they were to help me trace Jamie through the pages of history, starting with the faded copy of a document I found in Frank’s desk after he passed.

The going was difficult in my shoddy attempt at converting an eighteenth century outfit into a pencil skirt and blouse. Without a zipper or elastic, the skirt bunched strangely around my waist and rode up in the back at an alarming angle. In the absence of proper hose I made do with lumpy, thick stockings so unflattering I imagined they would be a dead giveaway, were I concerned someone would actually suspect their true origins.

Jamie’s ensemble was even more ridiculous. I had cut away the frills on a low-collared shirt and let out the hem on a pair of trousers that were much too big. His long wool jacket, however unconvincing it was as a modern artifact, corrected my misshapen work by framing his large, sculpted shoulders and covering the cinched-up pants with neatly closed brass buttons.

We passed for a couple of unfashionable country bumpkins at best, assuming we would make it through the stones.

Cresting the hill at Craigh na Dun, we approached the stones slowly. Jamie seemed barely flushed from the climb, while I was puffing and sweating with exertion —and fear. My movement forward was like piercing a magnetic fog, the air was thick with swarming moans and thunder-clap voices.

“Are ye alright then, _mo nighean donn_?” Jamie reached for my hand. “Christ, Claire, ye look as white as a sheet.”

“I’m alright, Jamie.” I said muzzily. I clung to the hope that we would make it through together, focused on the image of the three of us in each other’s arms. It was the one pinprick of light drawing me toward that dreaded darkness and chaos.

We crossed into the circle and stood in front of the split stone, gazing over its brindled surface as a keening wind rose up around us. I tugged a small pouch from my jacket pocket and slipped the most recent photo of Brianna into my hand.

“Do you have the pin in your pocket?” I said. Jamie nodded sliding the garnet-encrusted object into view, and then back within the depths of his coat. I handed him the small square polaroid. “My best guess as to how this works is that we need to think about Brianna. Focus on her, if you can. And for God’s sake, Jamie, don’t let me go!”

Jamie looked at me with a face that melted my insides. Reaching toward me, he held my face and brushed a wild curl from my eyes as the wind whipped all around us. His hand was rough, his face lined with the years we had spent apart. As he drew me toward him I could feel the heat from his body; he was a strong, steady light that could not be shrouded by the swirling madness around us.

“I will never leave you, Sassenach.” With a smile playing on his lips, he circled his arms around me and placed our hands together on the stone. In one moment the roaring ceased and emptiness seized us into the void.


	2. Craigh na Dun, Beltane: May 1 1967

_Rannoch Moor, by William Russell c.1960_

The first thing I felt was light on my eyelids. As my consciousness crept back into my body, I could feel the cool damp tufts of grass underneath me. Suddenly, a white-hot jolt of realization caused me to sit straight up.

“Jamie?” I looked around the stone circle. Things were unsettlingly similar to the scene I remembered only a moment before, my eyes searched the grass growing in the granite ledge, to the rim of oaks, to the spray of wildflowers nestled at the foot of the stones. Were the trees taller? My stomach sank with the thought that Jamie was funneled into the future without me.

To my left I caught sight of two boots poking out from behind a stone, a quiet retching sound told me he was alive. I gathered my aching body up and scrambled over to him, turning him on his side to clear his airway.

“If I canna control my wame by ship or by stone, Sassenach,” He spat into the grass. “I fear I wilna fare well with yer wee trains and autos.”

“Nor aeroplanes, I’d wager.” I smiled down at him. We grinned at one another like eager schoolchildren, letting the evening light pour onto us with its warm glow. I was still nauseous and felt every joint in my body, but I pressed Jamie to sit up so I could run a few tests, scanning his pupils for neurological damage.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked. A low Scottish noise rumbled in his chest as he answered, blandly going through the motions of my procedure.

“I’ll do, Claire.” He ignored the last sequence of my exam and stood slowly, buttoning his jacket.

I reached into my pocket and found the other garnet pin, or what was left of it, crumbling in the bottom of the silk lining. I couldn’t be sure we had made it to Brianna’s time until we’d reached Inverness, but as we climbed down the hill I was reassured by the sight of the asphalt-paved road. I had remembered seeing a stream by an outcropping of oaks in this place, and as we staggered shakily toward the road I knelt down and plucked a handful of mint from the banks of the creek.

“Sorcha.” Jamie said in a low voice, “Inverness is burning with the light of… a thousand fires.”

I stood and handed him some mint to settle his stomach. “It’s electricity,” I said standing next to him and looking over the town below us as it twinkled in the unfurling twilight. “Particles that transfer energy from one to another, flowing quickly across a stable source to produce enough energy to create heat, visible light, or even power a motor.”

“_Ah Dia_!” He whispered. “I didna ken it would be sae bright, like the stars.”

“Get enough electric lights together in one place and you can’t see the stars anymore, sadly.” I sighed. “In Boston I could rarely see the stars on a clear night.”

Mentioning Boston made my heart quicken. We were so close to a moment I had all but given up on. When I stepped into Jamie’s print shop six months ago it I felt an enormous callous around my heart crack and fall away. He had welcomed me back into his life, and I had found a part of myself that had remained closed, locked and shoved away for twenty years. In the days that followed our reunion, we were forced to grapple with the excruciating details of our separation: his son, William, who he could never know or acknowledge, my loveless marriage to Frank. I was surprised he had moved to Edinburg immediately following his release from Helwater.

> “Why did you not go home to Lallybroch?” I had asked him that first night.
> 
> “I wasna the same man after Ardsmiur and Helwater.” He told me, stroking my hair in the firelight. “When the British made it illegal for Scots to own a sword, I decided to take up the next best thing.”
> 
> “You’re a writer.” I smiled. “You’ve always been clever with words. My friend, Roger, found you through a rather subversive editorial referencing ‘freedom and whiskey.’” His eyes crinkled in the corners and then grew soft.
> 
> “I believed I had lost ye forever, _mo nighean donn_.” His face clouded over, marred with years of pain. “I wouldna let the British take the only scrap of humanity I had left. Words were my only way to fight back, to shed light on wrongdoing and make others see.” I took his head and drew it against my chest. A verse sprang into my mind,
> 
> “One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love.”
> 
> “Sophocles.” He smiled, slipping his arm around me and pulling me down onto his chest. Our bodies erased all words, time and space.

My mind jerked back to the present moment as I almost tripped over a crack in the pavement. Jamie grabbed my elbow.

“I dinna ken why they’d go to all the trouble to make roads that crack so miserably.” Jamie scoffed at the scraggly pavement, dappled with potholes.

“It’s not a Roman road to be sure.” I said. “But not even Rome was built in a day.” Jamie snorted. It was the sort of thing Uncle Lamb would have said. My chest tightened think that while Uncle Lamb had met my husband of twenty five years, he would never know the man who owned my heart, even now as he set foot on our time.

“Hurry, Sassanach,” Jamie said, “or we wilna get to the Reverend’s before dark.”


	3. Inverness May 2, 1967

It had been a restless night.

Tossing and turning on the springy mattress, I heard his chest rumble with the low sound of Scottish ire. The metal coils creaked and bucked as he tried his side, his back, his stomach. Finally, I awoke several hours into the night to find his side of the bed empty. Putting my hand on his now cold spot where the white linen sheets lay rumpled back, I sat up and looked about the room. Moonlight poured into the window, casting the shadowed features of the room in a silky softness.

A soft snore drew my eyes down the floor next to my side of the bed. I looked down to find him lying on his back, my wool jacket tucked under his head and his coat sprawled over his body. He was sound asleep, thick ginger eyelashes twitching with dreams.

I watched him until I saw it: a dear little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Unable to resist, I reached down and coiled one of his spooling ginger curls in my finger, letting my fingertips tenderly graze the side of his forehead. _Success. _I grinned inwardly as I watched another dreamy smile flicker across his face. I retracted my arm back up under the covers and let my face hang over the edge of the bed so I could watch him as I faded back to sleep.

When I woke up, Jamie was gone.

I struggled back into my awful skirt and tried to smooth my wrinkled blouse, catching my wild tangle of curls up in a large barrette I had found in the nightstand drawer: an abandoned artifact of a previous Wakefield guest. As I yanked up my lumpy stockings around my thighs (ignoring a rather wretched grass stain on the back) I wondered how many visitors had stayed in this very room; I surveyed the antique nightstand, worn lampshade and the books stacked in the dark mahogany built-in shelves and thought that it was very possible Frank might have stayed here during his painful search for me when I first disappeared through the stones.

How ironic that nearly twenty years later, Brianna and I would bunk together in this very room as Roger helped us search for Jamie, and only six months after that Jamie and I would lay here on our journey back to Brianna. As I tugged my other stocking up, I had to balance myself as I bobbed precariously with the bouncy feedback of the ancient bed springs. Judging by its age, this was probably the very same bed.

When I reached the foot of the stairs I caught a glimpse of Jamie in the parlor. His arm was wrapped around the frail form of the Reverend Wakefield as he gently lowered the man into a padded armchair. The Reverend tipped his venerable wrinkled face up, beaming at Jamie as my husband tenderly tucked a colorful afghan around the elderly man’s legs. He had aged considerably in the months since I had departed through the stones: a thin wisp of white flared up from the ancient cleric’s head like a spray of whipped cream; a burgundy cable knit cardigan hung loosely from his feeble arms and pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He was speaking to Jamie but I was too far to hear.

I started toward the parlor but was intercepted by Roger as he emerged from the kitchen.

“Claire!” Roger stopped short. “I can’t believe you came back!” He leaned closer to me, whispering “And with him!” He jerked his head toward the parlor, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Was I right about A. Malcom?”

“You most certainly were!” I gripped Roger’s arm, thankful he had saved his questions for the fresh light of morning but wishing he had waited until after I had eaten something. Seeming to register my need, Roger motioned toward the dining room.

“Fiona’s been in this morning.” He lead me to the table and sat down, pouring me and himself another cup of tea. “There’s eggs and black pudding.”

“God, thank you. I'm starving!” I lifted the lid off the ceramic serviette in the center of the table and scooped a generous helping of breakfast onto my neatly arranged formation of china plates. Under the doting care of the Graham women, the Wakefields dined with formal manners regardless of the food’s modesty. I imagined a man of the cloth could hardly afford decadent dining, but Mrs. Graham’s granddaughter had inherited her knack of creating delicious meals from simple ingredients.

As I unashamedly shoveled food into my hungry body, I could hear Jamie’s low voice resonating in the next room.

“He hasn’t said much about your journey here.” Roger leaned toward me with his eyebrows raised. “He nearly died of fright when the phone rang!” I chuckled through my mouthful of black pudding.

“It will be quite a transition, Roger.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “And not quite the same as my own to his time.”

“I should think not!” Roger laughed. “You at least had the benefit of seeing objects and scenes from the eighteenth century in museums and books. Jamie might as well be on another planet learning the ways of an alien race!”

I blanched at this comment, feeling guilty for exposing such a confident, grounded man to a whirlwind of change and uncertainty.

“Claire.” Roger’s voice dropped. “Why have you come back?”

I looked up at Roger and set my fork down. Drawing in a deep breath I reached for my tea, gripping the circumference of the floral-printed porcelain as if its hot contents would allay the surge of feelings welling up in my chest.

“I found Jamie in his print shop under the alias of A. Malcom, just like you said.” I began. “Our reunion was…deeply emotional. We spent an evening filling in the last twenty years for one another and I told him about Brianna.” Roger listened intently, eyes shining with sympathy as a thick tear slid down my face.

“When I took those photographs out of my pocket and showed them to him, he was captivated.” I smiled with the memory of Jamie’s eager face. “He looked at each photo one by one, cycling through the stack a dozen times and asking me everything about her. Her first word, when she learned to walk, what she liked to do. He hated the photo of her in a bikini!” I laughed and Roger’s face flushed a bright red.

“Finally he looked up at me and insisted we go back to her. I was surprised, truly. I didn’t think he would want to forgo the relationships and familiarities of his own time. I wasn’t even sure Jamie could make it through; we had been to Craigh na Dun several times and it seemed he had no reaction to the stones. Also, Jamie was quite occupied in Edinburgh with… various business dealings.” Roger quirked his eyebrows but allowed me to continue.

“He had some trouble with the local excise man and to put a long story short, his print shop burned down and we had to flee Edinburgh with Jamie’s nephew Ian and our sort of adopted son Fergus. We came to Lallybroch and tried to settle down but it was clear Jamie’s problems with the magistrate in Edinburgh would eventually bring trouble on his sister and her family if we stayed for long.” I stopped for a moment, taking a long pull of the black tea as Roger waited, expectantly.

“I thought telling Brianna about the stones was the hardest thing I had ever done.” My chest felt like lead with the thought of Jenny’s cold, stern reaction when Jamie and I had sat with her and Ian before the fire at Lallybroch, outlining the true nature of my origins and my whereabouts all these years. She had been so hurt, lashing out with all her feelings of betrayal and anguish. “It was weeks before Jamie’s sister would speak to me again. We spent months with Jamie’s family at Lallybroch, helping with the spring planting and trying to sort out our next steps.” Roger nodded.

“But how did you come back through the stones?” He asked.

“It was Jenny that helped us finally reach a decision, actually.” I recounted. “You must understand that Jamie’s sister casts a very warm light on those she trusts, and a rather cold shadow on those she doesn’t. After nearly a month of stonewalling me, she came to me in tears one afternoon.”

I remembered that afternoon at Lallybroch, starting with surprise when Janet knelt next to me in the kitchen garden.

> “Potatoes.” She had said, tears filling her cat-like eyes and spilling down her cheeks, though she tried to hide it. “Jamie told us ye might say some strange things, but ye saved us at Lallybroch many a’ winter after Culloden.”
> 
> My mouth was completely dry, devoid of any response.
> 
> “We grieved for ye, Claire!” She sat back on her heels and looked at me, emotion gripping her words. “And ye have the nerve to come prancing back here, all fine and blooming —we suffered w’out ye!”
> 
> “Jenny, I couldn’t have done anything to stop what happened. We tried—desperately!” I retorted, heat flooding my face.
> 
> “And then ye left.” She snapped.
> 
> “I thought Jamie was dead.” I said coldly, through gritted teeth.
> 
> “Ye left me, Claire. _Me_!” Jenny’s hardness broke and all the tenderness encased inside her calloused facade slipped out like a runny egg yolk. I threw down the tool I was using to draw a furrow for the radish seeds and opened my arms to her.
> 
> “Jenny.” I gathered her smaller frame up into my arms. “God, I never thought…”
> 
> “My heart broke to see my brother lost w’out ye, but I missed ye for meself, too, Claire.” She whispered. “Ye were like a sister to me, ye ken?”
> 
> We clung to one another, letting the raw wound drain of its pent up feelings and waited, allowing the silence to begin mending the space between us. As our tears abated and breathing slowed, Jenny took my head in her hands and looked at me with all the sincerity of her heart.
> 
> “Ye must go back to her.” She said, summoning her strength. “Both of ye. Jamie must nay longer be parted from his bairn.”
> 
> “I can’t ask him to leave you, Jenny.” My heart broke with the thought. “I can’t drag him to another century —we likely would never return.”
> 
> “His heart already went back wi’ ye through those stones twenty years ago.” Jenny gripped my face, wanting me to understand her. “He’s whole now, because of ye.” Her voice choked. “But I ken he already has a mind to go, Claire.” I hadn’t know Jamie had spoken to her about going, but I knew that once a Fraser’s mind was set, it would be impossible to persuade them otherwise.
> 
> “God, I will miss you Jenny.” Tears welled up in my eyes again.
> 
> “Ye go wi’ my heart, _mo phiuthar_.” Janet smiled, tearfully. “But I will no miss the stramish ye bring every time ye come to this house!”
> 
> We both held each other, laughing.

“Once we had Jenny and Ian’s blessing, I tried to think of every possible reason why we shouldn’t come back.” I set my tea cup down, leaning back in my chair. “He would miss his family, he wouldn’t be familiar with the setting, all of his work, his friends, his status in this time. He told me…” I shook my head. “He told me none of those things mattered to him as much as meeting his daughter. We waited until Beltane and then came through the stones.”

“Yesterday.” He breathed, staring into his own swirling cup. “Yesterday…plus two hundred years.” He glanced up at me with a wry smile.

Jamie strode into the room, looking slightly disheveled from last night in his rumpled shirt and trousers bunched like a drawn sack around his slim waist.

“Morning, Sassenach.” He kissed the top of my head.

A sudden clamorous ringing from across the room startled all three of us. Jamie leaped backward, crouching as if ready to attack while I had soaked the the tablecloth with my upsetteacup and sent a plate of scones crashing to the floor.

It looked like we both had some adjusting to do in preparation for our life in 1967.


	4. Atlantic Ocean, June 2, 1967, 9:46am

The plane had reached cruising altitude and I sipped my gin and tonic, sighing as the ice cubes clinked companionably in the glass. Jamie had kept the contents of his stomach firmly inside him throughout takeoff, which was a small miracle, but now he was frozen in his seat, gripping the armrests and staring out the window. The plane buzzed with the low chatter of passengers dressed in their best; elegant stewardesses in little box hats glided up and down the aisles.

“Well if you won’t drink that whiskey at least have some water.” I offered. “I’ve read aeroplanes can be rather dehydrating.”

“I wilna risk anything going down, Sassenach.” Jamie blinked slowly without taking his eyes off the ocean, some thirty thousand feet below us. “Were it not for my daughter on the other side of this ocean…” He gulped and spoke through gritted teeth. “I would rather be drawn and quartered before the court of King Louis than sit in this damned air ship as it drops from the sky!” As if to punctuate his point, the plane bumped over a little turbulence, launching a stream of _Gáidhlig_ curses from under Jamie’s breath. I patted his arm.

His graceful adaptation to my time had surprised me, although I suspected there was more going inside that poker face as he encountered unexpected surprises everywhere.

> “You’re judging me.” I had said angrily one afternoon as we pulled up to the Reverend Wakefield’s home with a car full of food from the market. “I saw the way you glowered through that store and I won’t have any of your self righteous attitude.”
> 
> “I didna like it, that I will admit.” Jamie was quietly fuming in his seat. “I canna believe they would carry an orange thousands of miles across an ocean only tae crush it and put it into a wee box!” His Scottish burr was drawn out with disdain.
> 
> “Oh, so you think orange juice is a wasteful excess of entitled people? Well, I like orange juice and I think you’re a pompous ass.”
> 
> “Jesus God, Claire!” All of Jamie’s pent up frustration finally fizzed over, “I once went fifty eight days w’out solid food when the prison ran low on supplies. On the fifty eighth day I caught a rat.”
> 
> I drew in my breath sharply and felt my irritation melt into shame. Of course it was an overwhelming experience for him walking into a Cooper’s with its towers of fruits and vegetables, rows of lit up meats and aisles crammed full of pantry goods. It often bothered me how much waste had become commonplace in modern life.
> 
> “I’m sorry.” I said simply, feeling crushed by my failure to guide him through the culture shock of my time. I had only wanted him to experience the small things from my childhood that I couldn’t have showed him before —silly little sweets, really. Now I understood his pain and bewilderment.
> 
> “Dinna fash yourself on my account.” He softened, touching my arm. “The truth is, I feel guilty for leaving Jenny, Ian and the bairns behind. That place could have fed all of Lallybroch and Broch Mohrda for a year.”
> 
> “I’m sorry we can’t help them.” I felt tears of embarrassment spring into my eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not helping you feel more at ease in this time.”
> 
> “Ah, lass.” Jamie placed his hand on my shoulder. “I didna come here to feel at ease, but to be with you, mo nighean donn. I canna fault you when I remember that you faced a time two centuries earlier than your own with no one to help you.”
> 
> “And your imperious uncles questioning my every move!” I laughed, wiping my cheek. 
> 
> He leaned across the dashboard and covered my mouth with his lips; a sweetness, I thought with a coy smile, that would never be rivaled by modern sugary things.

Within a few weeks, Jamie was navigating the twentieth century world with confidence. During the long days we spent at the Wakefield residence waiting for our visas, (Roger had called in a favor from a friend at Oxford to forge citizenship papers for Jamie,) I would come downstairs in the morning to find Jamie and Roger hunched over the dining room table covered with dozens of thick, yellowing volumes splayed open. With animated enthusiasm Roger walked Jamie through the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, the first World War, all the major plot points making up the gap between his time and mine. In the afternoons we strolled the town of Inverness; I did my best to point out things I thought would be helpful and answered his questions. We crammed in a telephone booth to give it a whirl but when we left, our clothes were rumpled, my coiffure was ruined and his neck sported a ferocious bite. Overall, his twentieth century education went swimmingly.

Sitting next to him now, with his stylish haircut done up with a tidy sweep of pomade and his sharply tailored suit of brown tweed with a crisp cream collared shirt and tie, I thought it would have been impossible to pick him out as an eighteenth century highlander who had been born in a small, drafty castle.

I wondered what Brianna would think of this man who had loved her from two hundred years away. Would she accept him? I drained my gin and tonic from its glass at the thought.

“This is your captain speaking.” A muffled voice crackled over the intercom. “Please fasten your seatbelts as we prepare for our descent into Logan International Airport.”

“Holy God.” Jamie scrunched his eyes shut as a dip in altitude sent both of our stomachs into our throats. I held his hand as the plane plunged earthward in perhaps the most indelicate landing I had ever experienced. “_Ilfrin!”_ Jamie hissed as the plane taxied to our gate. “I would rather hang than ride in this god-forsaken, oversized pistol shell again.”

“Well, I suppose it's ships for you then, soldier.” I said dryly, knocking back Jamie’s whiskey.


	5. Beacon Hill, June 2, 1967, 6:30pm

He looked down at his creased copy of _The Boston Globe _and then out the window. The heat was sweltering in the cab, and I could feel the part of my thighs that emerged from my pleated grey skirt were pasted to the pleather seats with sweat. l lifted my legs one at a time, resenting the sticky sensation of my skin peeling off the pleather and made eye contact with Jamie as he looked up from another short attempt at reading. I motioned to the little toggle on my door.

Pressing the button, my window slid down a crack. He nodded knowingly and found his own window controls. The glass slipped into the door more quickly than expected, causing the air from the freeway to rattle around the inside of the cab with a dull helicopter sound, seizing the newspaper, my hair and the cab driver’s receipts into a wild swirl. Cursing, Jamie rolled the window back up until a slit for fresh air remained.

“I didna see a crank to lower the window.” He explained.

“Nevermind,” I said, “We typically have power windows in American cars.”

“Electricity.” He murmured.

We rode in silence; the new shopping centers and entertainment district whizzed by us. As the cab dipped off the freeway toward Old Boston, I waited to hear a reaction to endless rows of stately brick, or at least a scathing castigation of the bright marquees and colorful billboards. Jamie was fixed on his newspaper.

“This article says this couple is fighting the state in the highest court of the land,” He held up the paper quizzically, “So that they can get legally marrit.” I leaned in and looked at a photo of a white man and a black woman holding hands, walking down the steps of a courthouse. They were shielded by men in suits as onlookers with illegible signs stood behind a picket line with arms lifted angrily.

“Loving vs. Virginia.” I read. “I remember reading this, yes, they’ve been appealing for years. It’s an extremely high profile case. The ACLU is attempting to federally dissolve bans on interracial marriage.”

“The American Civil… Liberties Union.” Jamie recited. “I’m verra troubled that the state wilna recognize a marriage already made before God, in front of a priest.” Jamie looked up at me, his ginger brows drawn together. “Sassenach, will Massachusetts not allow you and I…?”

I shook my head.“In this time there is no longer prejudice towards highland Scots, but rather unfortunately that’s because the culture displaced much of its bigotry onto people of color.” Jamie grunted.

“In a hundred years since Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation this country doesna ken how to believe ‘all men are created equal.’”

“It’s also a little slow on treating women equally as well.” I sighed. “When I phoned the hospital they were still quite upset about the contract I broke when I left last October. Which is ridiculous since the chief of surgery has swapped hospitals several times in the middle of his contracts.”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach.” Jamie’s fingers laced with mine. “You’ll be back in yer wee OR.”

The taxi pulled up to my house on Furey Street in the Beacon Hill neighborhood. The brick edifice was just as I remembered it, with friendly white shutters and window boxes spilling with blossoms framing the large picture windows. Three blue ceramic pots dotted the handsome paved steps up to the cheery oak door. I was less pleased when my eye was drawn to several large posters with aggressive slogans painted in wobbly capital letters and a misshapen peace sign taped to the insides of the lower windows. I frowned, taking the key from an envelope Brianna had mailed me.

We hauled our bags up the steps and unlocked the door. Stepping into the foyer, both Jamie and I were stunned as we beheld utter chaos. 

Clothes were draped over furniture, lampshades and piled in dejected heaps on the stairs. On the coffee table, a precarious stack of open, empty pizza boxes threatened to topple over onto a sea of crushed beer cans littering the floor surrounding the couches. The picture above the sofa hung askew with a bra dangling from one corner. Someone had bumped into the bookshelf and sent several stacks of books sprawling open onto the floor with a mess of loose papers and fliers. I was utterly horrified to spy a cigarette burn in the Persian rug.

“_Ah Dia_,” Jamie growled, kicking at a pile of shoes cluttering the doorway, “My daughter is running a brothel!”

I flew over to the windows and yanked them open, ripping the bloody boisterous signs off the windows and I shoved the lower sash up to let the stench of weed and stale beer escape.

I stormed over to the dining room table stacked with dirty dishes mingled with used silk screens and an alarming puddle of ink spilled from an upset bottle. I stopped short, spotting a note written in pink marker.

_Mama,_

_Sorry I’m not here to greet you._

_I’m with my friends at a rally on campus. _

_If we don’t do something my friend David will be drafted._

_I’ll be back later tonight._

_Love you,_

_Brianna_

Jamie was leaning over a stack of screen-printed fliers. He read out loud:

“If yer for the war in Vietnam, why aren’t ye fighting it, and if yer against the war in Vietnam, why aren’t ye in the streets fighting against it with us?”

“I didn’t realize it went this far.” I said truthfully. Jamie’s eyes were livid. He wore such a look of betrayal and rage, it struck the first flicker of doubt in my heart about traveling through time to find him.

“Ye didna realize that when ye left my child behind to find me,” He seethed, “Ye left her in the middle of her own war?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Source Materials:
> 
> https://www.newspapers.com/newspage/433921572/
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loving_v._Virginia#For_interracial_marriage
> 
> https://www.thecrimson.com/article/2017/5/22/vietnam-war-protests-1967/
> 
> https://guides.library.harvard.edu/hua/soc113


	6. Harvard College, June 2, 1967, 8:12pm

_Harvard Students Protest the Vietnam War in Harvard Yard, Spring 1967_

The first time I stepped onto Harvard’s magnificent campus, my daughter was tucked safely inside me.

I had let go of Frank’s arm as the Dean regaled him with the history of the iconic statue in the center of the grassy yard. It was just before the beginning of fall term, and the foliage making up a canopy in the yard was in a full crescendo of vibrant colors. I tugged my wool jacket more tightly around my widened midsection and walked over to a radiant tree that glowed with several fiery shades of delicious color.

“Siebold Maple,” I whispered to myself. “_Acer sieboldianum.”_

Bending over precariously, I selected a leaf from the ground: its brilliant hue was a warm butter yellow in the center, fading to a precocious shade of orange-red. Holding the leaf up, I absently twirled the stem in my gloved fingers so it spun around like flickering flame. Inside I felt a familiar kicking just below my ribs. The leaf was spinning so quickly its brilliant color was streaking in my vision like soft wisps of red hair.

***

Jamie caught sight of her hair first. She wore it long and loose, spilling down her bare shoulders and splashing down her back. He knew her instantly from her cat-like eyes with the Fraser slant and her tall, confident stance radiating the Mackenzie charisma. She had a crown of flowers in her hair and clutched a sign that was tipped away from his view. His pace slowed as his chest began to tighten.

“Lord,” His throat felt thick. “She’s the image of Ellen Mackenzie.”

As his eyes drifted to her minuscule cotton dress (_That canna be a proper garment_!) his anger bubbled up so hot, he could feel his ears burning. There were young men and women standing all around her, yelling and cheering. A student in glasses and a grey button-down stepped out of the crowd and held up a letter and envelope the was on fire.

“What the devil…?” Jamie could see signs that read “GET THE HELL OUT OF VIETNAM” and “NAPALM: JOHNSON’S BABY POWDER.” Several other young men broke from the crowd and held up their envelopes to the first student’s, the edges of the white paper catching flame and singing away into smoke.

I could see Jamie approaching the throng of students and ran to catch up with him. He had paused on the edge of the crowd, eyes locked onto Brianna.

“What the hell is this cockamamie.” He growled. I spotted the burning envelopes. Brianna had not noticed us, but I could read her sign: “SURELY THIS MADNESS MUST CEASE. -MLK”

“They’re burning their draft notices.” I puffed, trying to catch my breath. “They’re refusing to join the military and go to Vietnam.”

“Those men are refusing to do their duty?” Jamie spun on his heel and glared at me. “And ye allow my daughter to go cavorting with these rapscallions in her undergarments?” The pitch of his voice told me things were teetering out of control.

Suddenly the crowd of students began shouting, screams flared up from all sides as a company of police officers with batons, helmets and plastic shields spilled onto the green. I saw the young man in glasses squirming in the grass as a police officer straddled him, raising his baton. Officers were pressing their shields against a line of students who raised their fists, beating and punching where they could. I dove into the crowd.

“Brianna!” I screamed. I had lost sight of Jamie, but finally caught a spray of red hair. Brianna was gripping the arm of a police officer as he dragged a young man away. The officer yanked his arm from Brianna’s grasp and elbowed her in the face. She fell back with a stream of blood pouring from her nose. Lunging toward my daughter, I saw out of the corner of my eye a red blur charging toward the officer who had hit Brianna.

Before I could open my mouth, Jamie was on top of the policeman, pinning him to the ground with his own riot shield. Blow after blow slammed into the officer’s face as the angry Scot unleashed his fury. I could see Brianna sit up just a few feet away, holding her bleeding nose and blinking hazily at the violent scene. I fought through the tangled crowd to get closer.

“Jabie Fraser?” I heard her yell, still pinching her nose. Jamie jerked his head up toward her with a look of utter surprise and remorse. This distraction provided a moment for two other officers decked in full riot gear to descend upon Jamie. The three of them worked together to subdue the thrashing highlander, who fought with the frenzied madness of his Viking berserker ancestors.

I swooped down to Brianna and ripped off my sweater, handing it to her to catch the bleeding while I gently assessed the damage to her nose with my finger tips. I breathed a silent prayer of gratitude that it wasn't broken and pinched the upper bridge of her nose to staunch the flow. We watched as the police officers pressed Jamie to the ground, handcuffing him. I locked eyes with Brianna and she nodded, pinching her own nose in the spot where I left off as I stood up and ran in the direction the police were taking my husband.


	7. Suffolk County Jail, June 2, 1967, 10:44pm

“You weren’t kidding about his temper.”

“I know.”

“The way he went after that officer was nuts!”

“I _know_!” I gripped the steering wheel wishing to twist it off and throw it out the window. I was driving my old car, which had been in Brianna’s possession since I left for the stones. Her tenure with the vehicle had done considerable damage to the interior: the back seat looked just like my living room, only I was certain I smelled the decaying remains of a meatball sandwich somewhere under the seat. At least she didn’t smoke and drive.

“I think I have his nose.” Brianna said quietly, looking out the passenger window.

It was already 10:30 at night when we had stopped by the house and hurried out of our bloodied clothes. I’d advised Bree to go easy on Jamie and selected for her a pair of cream linen bell-bottoms and a loose, floral peasant blouse with a higher neckline. She had rolled her eyes and dressed with the attitude of a martyr. Of course this censorship wasn’t fair, but I needed their second introduction to go more smoothly than the first. Not wanting to push my luck, I ignored her garish platform shoes.

When we arrived at the municipal building which housed the Cambridge Police Department we learned that Jamie had been booked in the dreaded Suffolk County Jail. With growing dejection, Brianna and I drove back over to Boston without a word.

Parking at the Suffolk County Jail, I stepped into a telephone booth and rang Joe Abernathy. I was thankful he immediately picked up on the urgent tone in my voice and demanded little explanation before agreeing to come down after his late night rounds at the hospital.

Brianna and I ignored the terseness of the woman who thrust a pen and a clipboard at us without looking up from her crossword. Signing our names, we slid into a badly-yellowed row of plastic seats outside the intake area of the jail and listened to the loud smacking of the receptionist's gum as it echoed from her booth off the dank, cinderblock walls. I loathed the stark, functionalist style that seemed to dominate the architecture of the moment.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the lobby held dozens of people who looked as tired as I felt. Some were murmuring to one another in low voices, while others were leaned against the cinderblock, closing their eyes. I wondered if there had been some kind of commotion in the city, another widespread demonstration perhaps. It certainly explained the police involvement at Harvard, but I felt indignant that the officers had descended upon a group of young people with such volatile tactics and aggressive riot gear. I felt empathy for Brianna's friends: the Vietnam war was going badly and all the newspapers were showing photos of the chaos and destruction left in its wake. Everyone had a friend or acquaintance who had lost someone, all these young men, blooming with life and potential, snuffed out on distant shores. Even I, having lived through the complexity of wartime, I felt indignant hearing Westmorland's destructive rhetoric, "for every one man they kill of ours, we will kill ten of theirs." It was a costly strategy and hardly seemed effective. I wasn't sure I could get behind draft dodging, but I certainly could see both sides.

After an hour of listening to that bloody gum chewing I had never felt so relieved to see an officer of the law. The tired, bloated-looking policeman clinked through a security door and called, looking around expectantly, “Fraser?” Brianna looked at me and her eyes narrowed. It hit me that I hadn’t told her that I was going by Jamie’s name.

We followed the officer through a series of noisy, barred doors and down a poorly lit corridor until we came to a cell with a small alcove in front of the bars where we could sit. Inside, a dangling lightbulb illuminated a broad, looming form seated on a thin pallet and slumped with exhaustion against the wall. In the corner, a crusty steel toilet sat next to an enamel sink jutting from the wall and badly stained with rust where the faucet leaked down into the basin. Were Jamie in better spirits I might have joked that it was the most well-appointed jail cell he had ever graced. His face put any thought of humor out of my mind.

His lip was swollen and split, a small hematoma was forming on the ridge of his right cheekbone but I didn’t think it looked too vascular. The clever tweed suit we had purchased in Edinburgh was smeared with dirt and grass stains and the lapel was torn. His rumpled cream silk tie hung loose around his neck and sported several solid drops of dried blood. I stole a glance at Brianna as she sank into the other bench in the alcove. Her eyes were bright with curiosity but suddenly she frowned and looked at me, unsure of what to say. Jamie slid forward on the bed, leaning toward us with his elbows on his knees. Rubbing his eyes, a sprig of his red curls hung down, freed from this morning’s pomade.

“Lass.” His voice was resonant in the empty space. “I’m truly sorry for what happened earlier.” Jamie looked up at Bree, eyes filled with regret.

Brianna couldn’t squeeze a reply through the catch in her throat. It was unmistakeable the resemblance between them: his long straight nose, confident jaw and athletic frame were all echoed in her own bones. She saw the color of his neck grow red with embarrassment and felt a thrill of recognition. Did he teach himself to put on a blank face to hide the rush of feelings that flushed in his skin just as she had?

“Don’t be.” She choked, “It was terrible. The police…You were just trying to protect me.” Overwhelmed with feeling, hot tears splashed down her cheeks.

“_A leannan._” Jamie reached through the bars and held out his hand to her. “Dinna fash, I wilna let them hurt you again.” Bri cocked her head curiously at this statement but wiped her eyes and placed a hand hesitantly in his. Jamie went on, “Now that I’m here I’ll make sure you’re safe.” Brianna’s mouth twisted with discomfort, an expression that stole Jamie’s breath -it looked so much like Claire.

“Um,” Brianna started carefully. “What I was doing out there in the Harvard Yard…it was really important to me.” Jamie shifted uncomfortably but did not let go of his daughter’s hand.

“But you dinna have to put yourself in danger.” He clasped his other hand over hers protectively. “When I was in Edinburgh I spoke out against the problems of the day through the printed word. I could show you.” She was pulling away from his grasp ever so slightly.

“My friends and I aren’t the aggressors. We don’t ask for any trouble; we’re following Martin Luther King Jr.’s model of non-violent resistance.”

“Brianna” He said, accenting the ‘e’ more like ‘Breeanna,’ “Understand that I have had trouble follow me even when I have’na asked for it. You canna be with these people who instigate…” She jerked her hand out of his and stood up.

“I am not instigating trouble.” Brianna said firmly. “I’m part of a generation who won’t put up with a world where some people can’t afford food or housing while this country spends millions on bombs that kill children.” Her face was flushed with anger and she jutted her chin defiantly at her father.

“Yer too simplistic—” Jamie retorted. But Brianna was barely getting started.

“I will not stand aside while the colonial values that make life harder for black people like my best friend, Gayle Abernathy, are the same ones that drive this country to sacrifice my classmates in Vietnam, and for what?” Jamie rose, his blood starting to pound thick and hot in his temples.

“Now listen, ye wicked wee besom!” He yelled. Instead, Brianna banged her hands against the bars with a startling clang that echoed down the corridor.

“No, you listen!” She shouted, “You come here with your patronizing attitude…you are literally a relic of an outmoded, colonial system that I want no part of!” And with that she spun around and stormed down the hallway.

“Brianna!” I called, but it was no use. I turned to Jamie with an exasperated sigh. “Well now you’ve done it.”

“Christ!” He crumpled back onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.

I trotted down the hall and followed Brianna until we were unlocked back outside the intake area. We stepped out into the moonlight and sat on a bench by the door. Brianna looked down at the peeling paint and picked at it absently.

“When we found Jamie in Roger’s research,” She began, “and you left last fall I was happy for you, Mama. But I’m not sure he belongs here.” She looked up at me. “I had a really good father, I don’t need someone to come here and save me.”

“No, darling.” I brushed her hair from her eyes. “You are a lovely, strong young woman and Jamie can see that. He didn’t come here to save you, he wants to know you and cherish you for the person that you are —not to replace your father, but to love you just as he did.” Brianna leaned back into the bench and blinked tears from her eyes.

“I miss Daddy.” She said softly.

“As do I.” I said truthfully, despite the complexity of that statement. “And I’m no historian like Frank was, but I would like to point out that you called Jamie a relic of colonialism when in fact he suffered his whole life under the boot of British colonial expansion.”

“Oh,” Brianna squinted thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Jamie let go of both of us precisely because he wanted to protect you from a life where you would be hunted, pushed down and oppressed. The British wiped out his culture, murdered his friends —imagine what that was like for him.”

“Jeez.” She drew her knees up and hugged them to her body.

"Your father is quite literally old fashioned and has..." I lifted my eyebrows exasperatedly, "...a lot to learn about our time. But he cares for you deeply and wants to understand you."

I heard a car door slam, and in the pale light before dawn I could see Joe Abernathy make his way up the sidewalk towards the entrance of the Suffolk County Jail.

“Lady Jane?” He called to me.

“Joe!” I sprang up from the bench and greeted him in a warm embrace.

“I didn’t think you’d be back for a while, Lady Jane.” He slipped an envelope full of cash out of his pocket and placed it in my hands. “I’m awfully glad to see you.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances, I’m afraid.” I squeezed his arm with gratitude.

“Let’s go bail your man out of jail.” Joe turned toward the door. “Coming, Brianna?”

“Yes.” Brianna got up from the bench. “I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Source Material:
> 
> https://www.history.com/topics/vietnam-war/william-westmoreland


	8. Suffolk County Jail, June 3, 1967, 3:51am

_Thomas Winship, senior editor of the Boston Globe_

“Disturbance of the peace, assault of an officer, resisting arrest, conspiracy to participate in a violent demonstration, demonstration without a permit…”

“I didna participate in that filthy demonstration!” Jamie growled. Brianna rolled her eyes, shifting uncomfortably behind me.

“Look, buddy.” The clerk pushed the glasses back up from the bridge of his nose and glared at Jamie. His thick Boston accent was doubtlessly accentuated by the late hour. “I don’t file the charges, I just take ya bail money and process ya outta here. Unless ya wanna rot back in that cell until the hearing?”

Jamie made a low Scottish noise but signed the paperwork with an air of resignation. Once he was finished, Joe Abernathy took the pen and signed the bail slips.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jamie Fraser.” He smiled. The four of us pushed through the door and walked out into the parking lot. Thin wisps of magenta dawn streaked up from the darkened city skyline. My heart sank hearing so many charges against Jamie; just one of them could spell time in prison. I could feel the exhaustion in every corner of my being, like someone had stuck a hose to me and sucked out every last drop of energy.

“Careful, _a nighean._” Jamie held my elbow, steadying me as we headed down the sidewalk. He looked completely worn out and yet held on to me with a reassuring grasp.

“Excuse me,” A man was coming toward us on the sidewalk in an expensive looking coat and hat. My eyes were immediately drawn to a his ridiculous floral-printed bow tie. “Are you the Scot who was arrested earlier this evening?” The man took off his hat and looked at Jamie expectantly.

Before anyone could reply, the man erupted in boisterous laughter.

“Jesus!” He howled, “One of my reporters burst into the office and said Sean Connery had been arrested at a draft protest on Harvard Campus!”

“Sean Connery?” I wrinkled my nose.

“I'm the head of the biggest goddam newspaper in Boston and here I go rushing down here in the middle of the night to see Sean Connery like a kid to an autograph signing!” The man wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes and looked Jamie up and down. “Well at least this sturdy fella looks like he could play James Bond, am I right?” The newspaper executive cackled hysterically as the four of us stood in stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted his private comedy show. “And you are…?”

“Forgive me, ma’am,” The man pulled off his calfskin driving glove and reached a hand out to me. “Thomas Winship, executive editor of the _Boston Globe_.” He pulled out a pad of paper and a short, stubby pencil. “I will take a statement from you, sir. What’s your name?”

“I wilna be giving any statements to the press, sir.” Jamie’s soft burr caused Winship’s eyebrows to shoot up.

“Lordy, you are a Scot.” He chuffed. “My people are Irish immigrants a few generations back but I’ve always had a soft spot for Robert Burns.” Leaning toward Jamie he began to declaim in a rather fine fake accent,

_Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,_

_Wha represent our brughs an' shires,_

_An' doucely manage our affairs_

_In parliament,_

_To you a simple poet's pray'rs_

_Are humbly sent._

I rolled my eyes, remembering the ride to Lord Lovat’s estate long ago when Jamie had insisted I teach him every line of this poem. I made a move to step between Winship and Jamie to put an end to this so we could go home when I felt Jamie stir beside me. In perfect diction, he replied with the poem’s final line,

_Scotland, my auld, respected mither!_

_Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,_

_Till, whare ye sit on craps _ _o'_ _ heather,_

_Ye _ _tine_ _ your dam;_

Jamie and Winship were grinning foolishly now and joined in unison,

_Freedom _ _an'_ _ whisky _ _gang_ _ thegither!_

_Take _ _aff_ _ your dram!_

As I shook my head in astonishment the two of them howled like hyenas, laughing like a band of Mackenzies.

“I love this guy!” Winship said, slapping Jamie’s shoulder. He opened his wallet and pulled out an embossed business card from its fold. “Listen, I won’t ask why you were locked up,” He waggled his eyebrows knowingly. “But if you’re here it means you got moxie and you’re clearly a man of principle. I’m taking the _Globe_ in a different direction from my pops and I need an army of subversive poets, if you catch my meaning.” He shoved his card in Jamie’s front jacket pocket and patted it. “Whadya say, pal?”

“It’s been a pleasure, sir.” Jamie twitched like he was about to bow, but then jammed his hand awkwardly toward Winship who didn’t seem to notice the hiccup. Shaking hands, Winship spun around and headed back down the sidewalk.

I thanked Joe and drove my family back to Beacon Hill in an exhausted, yet peaceful silence. Without saying a word, Jamie and I dragged ourselves up to the spare bedroom and collapsed onto a lumpy old mattress. Dead to the world, we slept for sixteen hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to see Sam Heugan as the next James Bond?
> 
> Source Material:
> 
> https://www.nytimes.com/2002/03/15/us/thomas-winship-ex-editor-of-boston-globe-dies-at-81.html


	9. Beacon Hill, June 4, 1967

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: very NSFW

I opened my eyes, blinking slowly. The light ache of stretching my stiff muscles was pleasant as I rolled onto my back. Jamie was on his side, propped up on one elbow and looking down at me through his thick ginger lashes. A smile tugged at one corner of his lips and he reached out, stroking the smooth curve of my cheek. I curled over on my side toward him, tangling my legs with his and tucking my hands under my head as I smiled up at him.

He was naked to the waist and the sloping muscles of his sculpted body gleamed in the light filtering from the window. The white cotton sheets Brianna had thoughtfully (if not entirely neatly) put on the spare bed were draped about his hips like a Zeus from Michelangelo.

“_Mo ghraidh._” He whispered, leaning down and brushing his lips against the corner of my eyebrow. My skin tingled under his touch, a shiver of desire rippled through my body. He kissed the ridge of my cheekbone, peppering small, tender kisses down the side of my face. When he reached my neck he inhaled, drawing cool air over my sensitive skin. I gasped and reached up, digging my fingers into his hair and raking my nails down the back of his neck.

“Don’t ever leave me again, James Fraser.” I said huskily into his ear. A deep rumble resonated in his chest and he pushed me onto my back. Unclasping his belt, he wriggled out of his trousers and let them drop off the side of the bed. I was still fully clothed from the night before, and I arched my back to work the zipper of my skirt down, slipping it off my hips.

My eyes widened as he stopped me from unbuttoning my blouse and grasped both my wrists in one big, calloused hand. Pressing my arms over my head, he nosed into the top of my open blouse, nipping at the delicate flesh of my décolletage. I cried out and writhed as he slowly worked each button loose, exposing more of my body to his hungry ministrations. He teased and bit my nipples through the thin silk of my brassiere. It was almost more than I could stand.

Yanking my arms from his grasp, I surged up onto my knees and ripped the blouse off my body, sending several popped buttons flying across the room. I pulled his cotton drawers down to his knees as his arms encircled me, fiddling with the clasp of my brassiere. It fell, its straps sliding down my arms and I threw it against the door.

“Sassenach.” Jamie said with a gratified smirked, “Ye tell me ladies of yer time wear _panties_ but ye wer’na wearing anything under yer wee skirt all day.” He kicked the boxers off his ankle, his eyes flashing with an unhindered craving that tightened the coil of desire low in my body. Pushing him into the bed, I dropped onto one elbow and kissed him rousingly, letting the tip of my breast graze his chest. He shivered at my touch and traced every length of my body, his hands finally landing around my waist, pressing me to him. I opened my eyes and raised an eyebrow teasingly.

“Is this what you want?” I leaned over him, letting my soft, tender bits slide damply against the length of his hardness. He groaned and gripped my hips but I sat up higher, away from him. He panted up at me, raw and vulnerable; his grip relaxed and he slid his hands around my buttocks and the sensitive backs of my thighs, seceding control while still managing to drive me wild with his featherlight touch. I caved in to my own need and sheathed myself around him in a single movement. His face twisted with surprise and sincerity.

“Ah, Claire!” Jamie cried out, throwing his head back.

A look of pure worship came over him as I rocked against his body, drawing us both to the brink and then slowing down. The tension was pounding between my legs until finally we both spilled over the edge and melted into one another. I collapsed onto him, panting and sighing with the last ripples of heat coursing all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. He closed his eyes with a smile playing on the corner of his mouth and tangled his hands into my hair. We lay there as our breathing slowed.

“I need you to trust me, Jamie.” I said shakily.

“_Mo ban druidh_,” His voice reverberated in his chest, still pressed against mine. “Ye possess my soul. Have I no trusted ye with everything I am?”

Hearing him call me by the moniker of a ‘white lady’ or wisewoman didn’t make it any easier to express what was on my heart. I needed him to hear me as the concrete authority on this time —not as the ephemeral prophetess I had been in his. I slid off of him and sat up in the bed, trying to collect my thoughts.

“Jamie, when the police took you away it was like you were torn away from me all over again.” The emotion of it clawed at my throat. “How many times will I have to watch your temper drive you away from your daughter?”

I had intentionally referenced his arrest on the day Faith was born, invoking the reckless impulse toward violence that had stolen him from the brief moments his child had in this world. I had wanted to drive home my point, but the look of sheer pain on his face told me I had gone too far.

“I’m sorry.” I choked, “I shouldn’t have…”

“No. Yer right.” He said in a low voice. I could see tears stinging in his eyes. “I swore to ye I would’na let revenge come between us.” He looked at me. “Nor our child.”

“I am just as nervous as you are about Brianna’s involvement in the protests.” I smoothed hiscopper curls back and stroked his face. “But she is a grown woman now, and in this time that means she has a lot of autonomy. She isn’t expected to live in her father’s house until she gets married —she’s not even under the obligation to wed if she doesn’t want to.”

Jamie frowned and his lips quirked in thought but he held his tongue.

“There will be many things that will seem wrong or uncomfortable about the year 1967, and you can tell me whatever you are thinking. But please don’t react like you did at Harvard, even if you were right in doing it.” Jamie stared at the ceiling.

“I will heed yer warning, Sassenach. This is, after all, yer time.” Jamie pulled himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and facing me. “But I wilna let anyone touch my daughter. I’m still a highlander, and I’m still a father.”

“Just promise me you will be careful, Jamie.” I grasped his arm urgently. Jamie answered by leaning toward me with a soft, gentle kiss that pierced me to the marrow. With the utmost tenderness, he pulled me onto his lap and stroked my matted hair.

“Aye.” He said, breaking contact with my lips. “_Je suis prest._”


	10. Boston's West End, June 5, 1967

_Runners block a man from attacking the Boston Marathon's first female runner, Katherine Switzer in 1967_

Brianna’s eyes flew open, roused from the deepest point in her sleep cycle. She was startled to see Jamie’s face barely visible in the darkness, his hand was on her shoulder. Her bedroom was bathed in the grey light of pre-dawn so that the mountain of laundry on the chair and congregations of small knick knacks on every surface were illuminated by a silvery sheen. _Almost like hills and forests of a dreamlike landscape_, she thought. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and focused on the dark form of the huge Scot crouching at her bedside.

“I shall be going outside for a _jog_, lass; will ye come wi’ me then?” He whispered.

Brianna nodded and stirred sleepily under the covers as Jamie stood up and moved toward the door.

“Good.” He murmured. “I will meet ye downstairs.”

Brianna slipped her cotton athletic shorts over her knees and rucked them up her to her waist, throwing on a baggy red and white shirt and tying back her hair in a low ponytail. When she crept from her room, shutting the door quietly, she spotted Jamie through the open door to the spare bedroom.

He was wearing longer shorts than was typical for the day -something a boxer or a much older man might wear, and he had on a trim navy blue cotton ringer tee with the word “Oxford” printed in silver block letters. Jamie bent down over the bed and gently kissed her mother’s forehead where it peeped up amidst a wild tangle of curls. Seeing her mother’s hand reach up and tenderly touch his face made Brianna’s chest feel tight. She was strangely gratified to see such affection between the people who had made her, but she was simultaneously embarrassed to be caught watching such an intimate scene.

Sneaking down the long flight of wooden stairs, she went in search of her white tennis shoes (one was by the door and its mate was buried under some winter scarves in the foyer closet.) By the time she had laced the shoes up she could hear Jamie creaking down the steps.

“Ready?” She said briskly, standing up from the padded bench in the foyer.

“Let’s go.” He nodded, making for the door.

Out on the street, the wan light was just beginning to fade into pink as the two of them started jogging down the sidewalk along the row of brick houses. Brianna could tell by looking at her father that he was in good shape, but she was still surprised by the rapid pace he set. Not that she had any trouble keeping up, her long legs moved flowingly next to his with an easy grace. Brianna caught sight of her ponytail splashing from side to side in the corner of her eye; it was just the color of her father’s loose curls, the long part on the top of his head springing against the sides where his hair was closely cropped.

The neighborhood was beginning to awaken with morning sounds: bird song, the low rumble of a milk truck sidling up the street as the milkman leaped out in his white uniform, tipping his hat. A paper boy with a bulging knapsack sped past them on his bicycle, ringing both a polite warning and cheery greeting.

“I didn’t think running was common in the eighteenth century.” Brianna remarked, trying to make her voice sound less winded than it was.

“Moving yer body for sport is no' done in my time, unless it’s a part of a game.” Jamie replied. “When yer mother and I arrived in Inverness I found I couldn’a sleep wi’out heavy work during the day. Roger Wakefield suggested I try jogging and showed me the way of it.”

“Did he lend you that shirt too?” She asked, feeling her cheeks redden at the mention of Roger. It had been six months since she had seen him but the feeling of his hand in hers lingered, the memory of him near her sending her heart skittering off.

“Aye. But I wouldn’a wear his wee running trousers." Jamie wrinkled his nose. "I canna understand how the advancement of years has brought such a recession of fabric in garments.”

Brianna thought it was strange for him to decry the length of shorts typical for the 1960s after a lifetime of running around the Scottish moors in what amounted to her as a skirt, but she pushed the thought of her father’s leg coverage out of her mind.

“Let’s go this way.” She jerked her head toward a side street as they reached an intersection. Jamie grunted and they took off, weaving their way through the neighborhood until they crossed the busy street, coming to a black iron-wrought gate that was propped open to the entrance of the Boston Public Garden. The entrance was guarded by two blooming azaleas, puffed up very self-importantly behind a chorus of colorful tiny pansies planted in even formation across the flower bed. Jamie and Brianna trotted along companionably down the paved pathway through the park’s pleasant greenery and whimsical array of flowering plants. The pathway took them along a fringe of weeping willow trees scattered on the edge of a wide, shimmering pond that reflected the pink and orange hues of dawn.

Jamie caught Brianna’s eye and raised an eyebrow questioningly. He surged forward, increasing their speed with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Brianna grinned devilishly and churned the ground with her strong legs, pushing them even faster. Soon they were flying through the park as though Hell’s hounds nipped at their heels. A man walking opposite to them stepped off the trail, scowling as they raced by, and a woman scooped up her yapping poodle out of their way.

Before long the two of them sprinted past the south exit of the park and slowed their pace as they reached the crosswalk.

“Christ, yer a fast one.” Jamie beamed at his daughter, breathing heavily. His heart was thudding in his chest and the ache in his calves told him that he would be recovering from this exertion for several days. Brianna felt a flush of pride well up in her face.

“Maybe we can do the Boston Marathon together.” She smiled back at him. They jogged across the street and onto the brick-cobbled sidewalk, passing a series of shops. A tantalizing aroma drifted down the street and Brianna heard her stomach growl. “This is my favorite bakery, up ahead.” She said nonchalantly, not wanting to sound too eager.

They came to the storefront where a huge sign in fancy gold scrollwork depicted the bakery’s name, _Au Bon Pain_. The window was decked out like a Paris patisserie with rows upon rows of elegant baked goods perched neatly like a formation of Napoleonic soldiers. Mesmerized by the mouthwatering display, Brianna and Jamie slowed to a walk.

“Now here is an excess of food I recognize.” Jamie stopped in front of the window. “_Kouign-amann, mille-fuille, macaròn, palmier_…”

“You like patisserie?” Brianna stood next to him and spotted a tempting tower of eclairs perched atop a blue china cake stand.

“_Oui, ma chérie._” Jamie smiled, getting a far-off look in his eye. “Shall we, a_ leannan_?” He nodded toward the door.

“Absolutely!” Brianna scurried to the door and swung it open.

They were greeted by the delicious smells of the bakery’s interior, along with a woman in a crisp white apron and an enormous bouffant. From the ornate crown molding along the ceiling, to the floral embossed wallpaper, to the iron tables and chairs and heavenly array of baked things, it was like a bakery from another time, or so Jamie thought. Noise crackling from small television encased in gilded wood was the surest anchor-point to 1967.

“_Bonjour madame,_" Jamie seemed unaware that he had slipped into French. “_Avez-vous du café_?”

The woman behind the counter blinked back at him profoundly flummoxed, her head tilted at an angle that made her bouffant seem to defy gravity.

“We’ll take two coffees.” Brianna jumped in, leaning against the counter. “And I will have two eclairs and an almond croissant.”

Jamie ordered “_un religieuse_” (which Brianna translated for the woman as ‘one chocolate cream puff’) and eggs with ham. They carried their plates to a table.

“How can ye call this a cream puff when it'was made to look like a wee nun?” Jamie gestured to his baked sweet.

Brianna shrugged, figuring her father probably knew the traditional French names for the baked goods better than the woman working the counter, but feeling a little embarrassed he drew so much attention. The bouffant-clad bakery worker had not only been admiring his flowing French, but also the way his navy Oxford tee hugged his god-like physique. They sank into their seats and made short work of their patisserie.

“Mama said you lived in France.” Brianna looked up at Jamie, licking a bit of powdered sugar from her finger.

“Twice.” He replied. “Once as a soldier when I was yer age, and once wi’ yer mother as a... refugee of sorts.”

“She told me you were trying to escape false charges from a corrupt British administration.” Brianna said, careful not to invoke her own given last name in this context.

“T’was more personal than that.” Jamie gulped his coffee, looking down into its swirling depths.

Suddenly a familiar voice came over the speaker of the small television set and Brianna perked up.

“It’s MLK!” Her eyes sparkled at Jamie and she stood up, pushing her chair back with a screech as the legs scraped against the bakery’s floor. Jamie wondered who she could be talking about, but felt a small, unexpected pang of jealousy that this person would intrude on their moment together. He stood and followed Brianna over to the television set, where she stood, eyes fixed to the screen.

“_Ah Dia,_” Jamie squinted and saw the image of a black man flicker across the screen. “It’s a trick of devilry…a man’s wee fetch!” Brianna turned to Jamie and surveyed him appraisingly.

“You haven’t seen a television yet?” She looked incredulous.

“The Wakefields didna have one.” Jamie bent over to see the image more closely. “Yer mother told me about a telo-vision, of course.”

They fell silent and listened to the speech projected through the big speaker in the lower half of the wooden case. On the screen, the black man was standing behind a podium in what looked to be a church sanctuary. Behind him sat a row of other men, some black and some white, in various religious regalia. The speaker’s voice had the formal intonation of an educated man with the slight drawl of a southerner, he spoke with impassioned emphasis that immediately gripped one’s attention.

“_We can no longer afford to worship the god of hate or bow before the altar of retaliation. The oceans of history are made turbulent by the ever-rising tides of hate._ _History is cluttered with the wreckage of nations and individuals that pursued this self-defeating path of hate.”_

“This is Martin Luther King Jr.” Brianna touched Jamie’s arm. “They must be airing his speech again from April. He’s talking about the war in Vietnam.”

“He’s certainly right about history.” Jamie murmured. Something about the man reminded him of Brian Fraser, Jamie felt himself both convicted and encouraged by the fatherly voice.

_"As Arnold Toynbee says: “Love is the ultimate force that makes for the saving choice of life and good against the damning choice of death and evil. Therefore the first hope in our inventory must be the hope that love is going to have the last word_ _._

"_We are now faced with the fact, my friends, that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history, there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked, and dejected with a lost opportunity. The tide in the affairs of men does not remain at flood—it ebbs. We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words, ‘Too late.’”_

Heart pounding, Jamie’s mind flashed back to the carnage at Culloden Moor; the bones of his clansmen strewn about in the devastating wreckage. “Too late.” He had thought, gutted by his failure to stop the violence from consuming his people and tearing his family apart.

_“We still have a choice today: nonviolent coexistence or violent coannihilation. We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak for peace in Vietnam and justice throughout the developing world, a world that borders on our doors. If we do not act, we shall surely be dragged down the long, dark, and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.”_

“This is what I believe.” Brianna gripped Jamie’s arm, breathless with emotion. “MLK says that ‘we adopt nonviolence because our end is a community at peace with itself.’” She looked up at Jamie, her eyes shining. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Aye.” Jamie stared at Martin Luther King Jr. as his image wavered on the screen. “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is a re-imagining of Jamie and Brianna's outing in Drums of Autumn where they search for honey. Did you like it? Let me know what you think!
> 
> Source Material:
> 
> https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/king-papers/documents/beyond-vietnam


	11. Newspaper Row, July 12th 1967

_The Brewer Fountain at the Boston Common 1967_

“_Ilfrin_!”

I heard a clash and a splashing sound in the kitchen followed by a volley of _Gaidhlig_ curses.

“Having trouble with the coffee pot?” I said loudly, craning my head toward the kitchen door.

I was bent over the file cabinet in the desk, looking for my medical license and accreditations I would need to bring in to Boston General today. Joe had finally coaxed the chief of surgery to reinstate me at the hospital and put me back on rotation. I had a few consults in the morning and hoped to scrub in with Joe this afternoon for a delightful bowel resection. My fingers itched to be holding a scalpel again.

I could hear Jamie quietly pouring something in the other room. He was expected for a meeting downtown after following up with Thomas Winship of the _Boston Globe._ After recovering from our intercontinental travel (plus time travel) and tidying up the house for the last few days, it felt pleasant to greet the morning with an agenda. Brianna bounded down the stairs and sauntered into the dining room wearing a yellow short-sleeved sweater, embroidered jeans and one sandal.

“G’morning, Mama.” She stopped into the study, kissing my head.

“Where are you off to today, Bree?” I smiled up at her.

“I’m working at the library on campus until 2:00,” She located the other sandal peeping out from beneath the desk and slipped her foot into it.

“Hmm.” I looked at the round clock, noting that the the hands had slipped further than expected.“I’m afraid you’ll have to walk to Newspaper Row, Jamie!” I projected toward the kitchen.

Jamie stepped out into the dining room, crossing toward the study with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the mess of papers and files on the floor around the desk.

“Have ye lost something, Sassenach?” He set my coffee down on the desk.

“Yes… well, never mind —here is my license.” I pulled out the document with its embossed seal, tucked it into my burgundy leather briefcase and reached for the coffee. “What are you planning on telling Winship about your journalistic experience?” I leaned against the desk, sipping the hot, steaming liquid.

“The truth.” Jamie shrugged, sidling up to me and wrapping one arm around my shoulder.

“You’ll tell him you printed seditious pamphlets on a Gutenberg-style printing press in the eighteenth century?” I nestled in closer to him, poking his ribs teasingly.

“I’ll tell him I was widely published in Scottish journals for my critique of the British occupation in Scotland.” I choked on my coffee.

“Well that phrasing of the United Kingdom’s political structure alone should land you a spot writing for the _Globe_.” I snorted. “Winship is known for getting right into the thick of the debate when comes to politics.”

Jamie grunted, draining his mug. I felt a pang of worry, imagining him getting lost or wandering down a dangerous street.

“I wilna lose my way, Sassenach.” Jamie wrapped his arms around my waist, seeming to read my mind.

“Was it that apparent on my face that I’m concerned for you?” I whispered into his ear as he drew me close. He replied with a low hum and kissed the side of my cheek, his lips radiating with heat from the coffee.

Brianna swept through the house jangling her keys, wishing us a breezy goodbye and slamming the door behind her. I looked up at Jamie, suddenly reminded by the familiar hallways and furnishings all those years I spent wishing only to hold him and kiss him goodbye and hello every day. A familiar honking outside startled my thoughts.

“Well, that must be Joe here to give me a ride to the hospital.” I said, hoping it wasn’t obvious my eyes had been welling up with emotion. “Welcome to the start of a new day!”

“Welcome to forever, Sassenach.” Jamie leaned in and kissed me.

The streets were filled with Bostoners: streaming up and down the sidewalk, honking at each other on the road and yelling from market booths in their high, nasally accents. Jamie silently thanked Jesus, Michael and St. Bride that his daughter spoke with a Pacific accent rather than that dreadful sound.

The rush and bustle of the city was familiar to Jamie. In his last few years without Claire he had gravitated toward Edinburgh precisely because he had grown accustomed to a noisy backdrop. He could hardly imagine returning to the deafening silence of the countryside, even though he no longer needed to drown out the the discordant echoes of his loss. Plus, he thought, if he had moved back to Broch Mhorda after returning from Helwater, his sister would have likely forced him to wed some wretched spinster or widow. The thought made his nose wrinkle with disgust. No, city life suited him.

Deciding to take a shortcut, he was drawn toward the green open spaces of the Boston Common. Maybe he was more inclined toward nature and the peace of wild things after all. The trees along the pathway had grown up through the pavement, their roots pushing against the asphalt like the ache in his heart that longed to push through the concrete jungle and find grassy hills and cool forests again.

He strolled past the carousel and spotted the Frog Pond across the lawn. Nearing the sparkling water he noticed a young man wearing a long canvas trench coat and a grey fedora. The man held onto the hand of a little red-headed girl with long braids and a bright yellow gingham dress. Jamie stopped, his heart caught in his throat. The two of them were reaching into a colorful plastic bag of Wonder Bread and throwing crusts to an assortment of greedy ducks.

The girl squealed with delight as an especially bold mallard flapped upward, splashing and snapping up a crust of bread directly from her little hand. Jamie’s heart clenched, seeing the young man reach out and steady the little girl as they laughed together. He wondered if Frank had taken Brianna to this very pond, not far from their home.

“_Deo gratias._” Jamie murmured a prayer of thanks for the man who had held his own daughter’s little hand not because she had been Randall’s flesh and blood, but simply because she needed a father. He imagined what it must have been like to love a little girl for her own sake rather than because she was an extension of him. Some of his resentment toward Randall thawed as he watched the happy pair make their way down the path to the other side of the pond. Jamie crossed himself and continued through the park toward Newspaper Row.

Winship’s office had floor to ceiling picture windows and a dramatic modern light fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling. A lime green pleather sofa graced one side of the office and two leather club chairs sat opposite the big, midcentury style desk. The secretary held the door open as Jamie strode in, greeting the editor as he sprung from his desk chair and scurried to shake hands. The editor was clad in another brightly colored bow-tie and red suspenders. He seated Jamie in one of the club chairs and settled himself on the other side of the desk, decanting two generous pours of whiskey into crystal glasses and handing one to Jamie.

“It’s good of you to come in, Fraser!” Winship winked at the Scot, knocking back the whiskey like a true Irishman. “What do you think of my new Rothko? I got it in New York last week!” He gestured toward a large painting behind his desk. Startled, Jamie stared blankly up at the melding layers of pink, orange and black, not sure what he was supposed to think or feel.

“It reminds me of watching the sun rise from the cliffs of the Isle of Skye.” He attempted, hoping not to sound foolish. The editor grunted appreciatively, gazing up at the painting and finally twisting his swivel chair back toward Jamie.

“I understand from your phone call that you have a background in politics, journalism and… shall we say…” He raised his eyebrow. “Rabble rousing?”

“I wiln’a lie to you sir,” Jamie settled back in his chair. “I’m no a saint. When my sister was attacked by a British officer I tried to defend her honor and found myself branded by the British authorities as a rebel. I’ve spent my life trying to scrape out a wee bit of justice for the people in my charge —wi’ no help from the authoritarian rule of Britain.” Jamie outlined his participation in a plot for Scottish independence: sensibly downplaying elements linking to the Jacobite rising in 1745 while maintaining the integrity of the story.

“So you’re one of those White Rose rebels, eh?” Winship drained his crystal glass, gazing at Jamie with respect. “I understand the Scottish National party put forward a petition in 1930 with thousands of signatures requesting home rule, but I had no idea the British quelled a rebellion.”

“Aye, the Scottish Covenant.” Jamie was glad he had done his research, but felt sad his countrymen had made little progress in 200 years to secure their nationhood. He pivoted back to his own story. “I spent years in prison for my stand against tyranny. Once I was released, I started a… publishing company in Edinburgh. On the side I created small political journal and submitted to larger publications.”

“Let me guess,” Winship laughed. “Treason and sedition?”

“The local British authorities burned my offices to the ground less than a year ago.”

“Jesus!” The editor gasped, crossing himself. “And no doubt they covered the whole thing up!”

“I’m no a rabble rouser, Winship.” Jamie leaned in, putting his elbows on the desk. “But I come from a noble family in Scotland, which means I ken my duty to uphold the weaker man. Now my home and people are…” Jamie winced, “…lost to me, but I’ve seen the way well off in yer land treat those who have less. Yesterday I stepped onto a crowded bus and watched a white man force a black mother out of her seat. This country is riddled wi' the same disdain the British have for my kin.”

“Jim Crow casts a long shadow, Fraser.” Winship shook his head. “Listen. The _Boston Globe_ is he most circulated paper in this city, but I believe my pops was too careful. He played things safe, mealy-mouthing and capitulating to avoid ruffling feathers or causing a stir. I’m done with it.” He slapped the desk. “The _Globe _has the attention of millions, and the people are restless, Fraser. They’re unhappy with Johnson and his strategy to just keep throwing our boys at the Viet Cong without counting the cost.”

Winship reached into his desk and offered Jamie a cigar. Jamie shook his head, unaccustomed to smoking during the day. Lighting the thick, sweet-smelling Havana between his teeth, the editor continued.

“We were the first rag to push back against the war, even before the Times or the Post, and I’m proud of that fact! But as long as Johnson is in office he will remain committed to saving face over there while our kids die in the jungle.”

“What do ye need, Winship?” Jamie asked.

“I need a warrior —a fucking warrior who knows his way around the political machine but is gonna get in there with those brown-nosers and stick up for the little guy.” Winship looked at Jamie pointedly. “Now I’ve got a team of people here in Boston covering next year’s election but right now everyone thinks Johnson is gonna run unchallenged in the Democratic primaries because the establishment Democrats want to keep his ass in the White House for another four years.”

“But ye dinna think so?” Jamie looked confused.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” Winship grinned. “I know he won’t go unchallenged. I’ve been watching my boy, Bobby Kennedy who, as you know, is from this very district but carpet-bagged his way into a senate seat representing New York.”

“And ye think this man will run for the Democratic primaries against Johnson?”

The editor laughed, “To be honest, I’m not sure. Those Kennedys are about as slippery as they come, but I noticed a change in Bobby after his brother died.”

“His brother,” Jamie strained his mind to summon the image of Roger Wakefield, pointing to a chart of the U.S. presidents. “John F. Kennedy who was assassinated.”

“One in the same. Bobby has been all over the country answering the desperate pleas of impoverished pockets of the country where kids are still dying of malnutrition. I’ve had a couple of my guys fly out with him to these places where the people come out of their hovels in droves —they climb all over each other to touch him like he’s the messiah! They love Kennedy, he’s a sensation!”

“But those in power favor Johnson?” Jamie’s brows furrowed.

“Fraser, if there was anybody who hates Kennedy’s guts it’s Lyndon B. Johnson. He won’t go down without a fight, but the people have already turned against him. Kids are out in the streets protesting with their flowers and tie dye, black communities are out demonstrating: sitting in segregated diners and riding busses across the country, hell! I just published a story this weekend about a group of veterans who have had enough of his bullshit!” Winship slapped the desk emphatically. “The people are done with Johnson! We need a new agenda and a fresh face for the Democratic Party or it’s Nixon’s ass that will be in the Oval Office!” The editor leaped out from behind his desk and strode around to the other leather club chair, sitting down next to Jamie. The cigar smoke wreathed around their heads as he leaned forward, inches from Jamie’s face.

“You’re a warrior, Fraser.” Winship’s eyes bore into Jamie’s soul, and for a moment Jamie felt exposed. “I knew it from the minute I saw you walking out of that damned jail on the day so many Bostoners took to the streets opposing the war. How lucky am I that I bumped into an exiled Scottish political journalist, eh?” Jamie didn’t know what to say.

“You’ve got the subversive spirit of a rebel,” Winship continued, “but unlike most of these clowns in Washington, you’re driven by a genuine care for others. I know you’ll use your voice at the _Globe_ to speak on behalf of the little guy. I want you on Kennedy’s beat.”

Jamie’s heart sank, knowing this task would involve travel, taking him away from Claire and Brianna. “What about the race for mayor?” Jamie suggested, careful not to let his feelings appear on his face.

“You can start there.” Winship offered. “God knows that’s gonna be a hell of a race! But believe me, Fraser, Kennedy’s getting into this fight and the _Globe_ is gonna be there for every minute of it!”

Winship’s secretary politely cracked the door and stuck her head in. “Five minutes until your ten o’clock, sir.” She nodded to the editor. Jamie and Winship stood, shaking hands.

“It’s been a pleasure Fraser.” Winship took the cigar out of his mouth. “Come back Monday and we’ll get you set up on the third floor.” The two of them walked to the office’s big oak doors.

“We Gaelic freedom fighters have to stick together, eh?” The editor clapped a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “What is it my grandfather used to say in the mother tongue? _Túlach Árd_!”

"Aye." Jamie could feel every hair on his body standing up as he shook Winship’s hand again, repeating the Mackenzie battle cry.

“_Túlach Árd!_”


	12. Widener Library, Cambridge July 12 1967

_The first microwave by Amana, called the "Radrange" was introduced in 1955_

The last two summers between her spring and fall terms at Harvard Brianna worked at the campus library. Her father, Frank, had suggested it, even though he had carefully laid aside a sum for her to purchase books and necessities during the school year. Free tuition was, of course, a perk of having a parent as a faculty member, but notwithstanding the incredible privilege of fully funded education and livelihood, Brianna was careful with money.

She was thoughtful about each of her purchases, meticulously itemizing in a lined ledger each ream of flier paper, each gallon of screen printing ink, each pallet of blank tee shirts, and each time she hired a band to come and blast their zealous tunes at a rally. Brianna knew she was spending a lot of money, but she was also careful. She calculated the moral and political import of her cause and decided it was worth every penny.

By the time her mother and long lost father had appeared in Boston, the once flush Randall bank accounts had been diminished slightly. But Brianna Randall was careful. She took extra shifts at the library to make certain her role as benefactor in her free-thinking circle of beatnik friends remained unchallenged.

As Brianna sat behind the counter at Harvard’s Widener Library, she wondered if her role in hosting all the philosophical gatherings, boozy ragers and late-night printing sessions would be forever dampened by the presence of her party-crasher parents in the house. Her mouth twisted in thought. Her mother wouldn’t certainly think of living permanently with Jamie in the house she had shared with her first husband?

For a moment, Brianna considered sadistically whether it was worth throwing a little guilt onto her mother in order to free up the space for another party. Then she thought of Jamie’s face as he smiled at her over breakfast. It was the same look he gave her when she had listened to MLK’s “Beyond Vietnam” speech at the bakery.

Jamie understood her.

While still thoroughly ruffled by her ways, he seemed to register that her contrarian spirit wasn’t bent on causing trouble —it was simply passionate about protecting people who seemed vulnerable. Without even being present for the beginning of her life, Jamie somehow understood that she had felt vulnerable and alone as a child. Sprung like a seed sprouted amid the painful tension between her parents, Frank and Claire, that tender spot in Brianna’s heart had reared both her contentiousness and her compassion.

Brianna wondered if Jamie understood this because, she had noticed, he was also contentious and compassionate —and maybe he had grown that way because he too had a soft, sensitive inner space that needed protecting. She was surprised to find herself curious about her father’s upbringing, his life and the time he came from. Brianna leafed through a book she had sneaked off the shelves: it was a thick, yellowed tome written by a colleague of her father, Frank, detailing the battle of Prestonpans. Her eyes scanned the pages for the words “Red Jamie.”

“Heya, Bree.” A tall student with shaggy blonde hair and an impish stoop to his shoulders sauntered to the checkout desk.

“Hi, David!” Brianna’s face lit up. She slammed the book closed and tucked it onto her lap, hoping her friend hadn’t noticed it.

“What are you reading?” David seized upon the book with a lanky arm and grinned at Brianna flirtatiously. “Hey, what do we have here, now? Are you reading some sexy romance novel?”

“No, David!” Brianna squealed and held onto the book. “Let go, that’s mine!”

“Give it here!” David began pinching Brianna’s side, leaning over the desk and pulling the book away from her. “I want to see what kind of smutty stuff you like!”

Finally freeing the dusty yellow book from Brianna’s grasp, David looked disappointed by her reading selection.

“Oh, _The Battle of Prestonpans_.” He looked up at her, blankly. “Are you taking some kind of summer class for your major?”

“No,” Brianna scoffed, snatching the book back from David with a huff. “My 200-year-old biological father returned from Scotland and I wanted to read about his exploits in the Jacobite rising.”

“Jeez, Brianna, you don’t have to get sarcastic.” David’s eyes flashed angrily. “We all have to catch up sometimes, summer classes aren’t a big deal.” His face took on a more empathetic gaze; he stepped toward the desk, lowering his voice. “I heard you almost flunked out last semester.” He said softly.

“God, David.” Brianna retorted hotly. “I don’t need your patronizing attitude!”

David put his hands up defensively and backed away from the desk.

“Good luck, Bree.” He shrugged and headed out through the library’s heavy double doors.

Brianna slumped back into her chair and sighed. She had been failing several of her history classes in the spring semester. After sending her mother off to unearth a previous love from centuries ago, she now felt time itself was muddy and ambiguous like a twisted Picasso painting. Any narrative could be drawn from its confusing angles and random patterns —who can say who is right or wrong? History felt like a liar.

She sighed, looking down at _The Battle of Prestonpans_ in her lap. In truth, she wondered if her own history had been the real disappointment: two people were in her life to love her, and yet neither of them seemed to find love in each other. Now that her mother had quite literally dived into the pages of the past and re-emerged with true love, what was Brianna really looking for in her history books? Her father, Jamie? Or was it a connection with her first father the historian, Frank? Something about history felt messy, raw, and unpalatable in this confusing time of her life. David had been right —she was on the edge of flunking out and she barely cared.

Several clocks throughout the library gonged the hour. From the checkout desk Brianna could hear a clock on every floor through the vaulted balcony, their pealing clashed in a charming sort of chaos that felt comforting on top of telling her that work was over. Brianna slid off her swivel chair, switching places with the student librarian who had just clocked in. The girl wore an expensive argyle cashmere and cat-eye glasses that made her look a decade older. She swept past Brianna and squinted at her judgmentally, her glasses magnifying every apprising dart of the eye. Settling into the chair behind the checkout desk, the girl made a face like she had smelled a foul odor and scowled at Brianna.

“Ugh, hippies!” She glared disapprovingly.

Brianna pretended not to hear the girl’s superficial judgement. She thought such a display was a sure sign of a feeble-minded conformist and suppressed her indignation by telling herself she felt sorry for the girl and the conventional cage in which she undoubtedly dwelt. Walking across the green to where her car was parked, Brianna thought darkly that the girl was probably one of those idiot sophomores who “just happened” to show up at Luigi’s on Thursdays to mingle with the all-male business management club. _A bunch of misogynistic assholes, if you ask me._ She imagined the girl batting her eyelashes at a dull-eyed, Neanderthal business major and telling him how good she was at making pie and how much she adored the writing of Phillis Schlafly.

The thought of Phillis Schlafly and her opposition to equal rights for men and women caused Brianna’s roiling stew of anger to finally bubble over. She flung the station wagon’s door open and flopped into the seat, jamming her key into the ignition. Growling and fuming, Brianna attempted to turn the engine over, but a choking sound gurgled from under the hood.

“Ugh! Not now!” Brianna hissed, pushing on the key and gently stepping on the gas. The recalcitrant station wagon continued to convulse alarmingly and Brianna let go of the key, letting the car fall silent.

“Jesus, fuck!” She climbed out and kicked the tire fiercely. Opening the hood, she noticed the humidity had caused bright green corrosion to form on the battery terminal. _A simple enough fix. _She breathed a sigh of relief, finding a metal wire brush in the trunk of the car and scrubbing the gunk off the terminal. It was probably time to change the battery in this car. She reached around the battery, checking the cables.

Elbow deep in the car’s guts she felt a deep sense of calm ground her. In her mind she could see all the car’s mechanical connections mapped out in a linear flow of energy, every pathway and junction an unwavering line from one mechanism to the next. No indecision or convoluted feelings vying for her attention. Every stressful stuck-point in her brain melted and was swept along into the system’s linear current.

The anger faded away as she lost herself in the comforting truthfulness of mechanics. By the time Brianna slid back into the driver’s seat and successfully turned over the engine, she had forgotten about the rude girl with cat-eye glasses. _If only I could major in station wagons. _She thought humorously, but then gave it a second thought. Her best friend Gayle’s older brother Lenny was studying mechanical engineering at MIT.

Following a surreal moment of inspiration, Brianna impulsively drove across Cambridge from one hallowed institution of academia to the other.

James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser was a laird. He was Lord Broch Turach, a soldier, a Jacobite conspirator, a military leader, a master horseman, a notorious printer, the king pin of a small smuggling ring, and he had just become a political reporter for the _Boston Globe_.

But he could not operate a god-forsaken, bloody microwave.

Jamie perched the spectacles lower on his nose, bending over the foul machine and glaring at the tiny numbers printed along the dial. He cranked the dial on top and a light came on, then he tried twisting the one below it, but perplexingly no series of twists and cranks resulted in his food growing any warmer. He opened the door, illuminating the contents of the Radrange microwave and touched a meat pie gingerly with one finger.

“Christ!” Jamie slammed the little door shut. “Still colder than the devil’s arsehole!”

Had he known microwaving would present such a challenge, he might have chosen something different when Claire suggested he pick up frozen food for dinner. In truth, he had wandered the frozen section nervously for a quarter of an hour, torn between wanting to be helpful and yet completely put off by the rows of boxes covered in overly-large, vulgar images of food.

Jamie had gaped at the profanity printed on the boxes: “Hot! Sizzling! Melt in your mouth!” He nearly fled the store when he spotted the familiar image of a meat pie and scooped it up, practically running to the cash register. When he got home, he had tucked the pies into the freezer and dug into an interesting looking title sitting on the shelf, “How to Win Friends and Influence People.” When the large grandfather clock struck six and there was still no sign of Claire from the hospital, Jamie new his moment had arrived.

Unwrapping the box, the direction seemed easy enough —even for a man who had never in his life prepared food for himself in a kitchen. Unless he had been out on the road or hiding in a cave, someone else had cooked for him every day of his life. Jamie knew that even in this time women still did most of the cooking, but he also felt it was hardly fair to ask Claire to save lives all day and then cook him supper. And pragmatically, he didn’t even know if she was out of surgery yet, still lacking the confidence to pick up the phone and call the hospital. Jamie was determined to love Claire in her time, which meant accommodating to her needs as much as she had accommodated to his in the eighteenth century.

But it would do him no good if he couldn’t heat the damn food!

Throwing open a drawer with crumpled receipts and pens, he leafed through a stack of manuals until he found one with 'Radrange' printed on the front. The manual was laid out messily, filled with other advertisements. Jamie wondered exasperatedly why anyone would want to purchase another item from this company before they learned how to use the first one. Finally he found a page that listed out cooking times for different foods.

“If such a food as _fish sticks_ has an entry,” He growled at the microwave manual, “I dinna ken why it doesn’a have one for meat pies!”

“Having some trouble?” Brianna strode into the kitchen, setting her book bag down on the counter.

“I have supper for ye, lass.” Jamie studied the buttons again. “But…” He growled. “I dinna ken how tae operate yer wee _micro-wave_.”

Brianna put her hand on his shoulder and first dialed in the heat setting, then twisting back the time. The light blinked on and the microwave blared, happily turning the meat pies. Jamie reached up and pointed to the dials.

“Show me again.” A sheepish smile tugged the corner of his mouth, but she admired how unselfconscious he seemed. She ran through the sequence again, explaining each part. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the smell of hot pastry.

“No as good as _Au Bon Pain_, but it’ll do.” Jamie surveyed the steaming pastry; he pulled the plate of meat pies out and set them on the kitchen table. “Christ, that’s hot.” He shook his smarting hand, surprised by the temperature of the plate. Brianna hopped up onto the kitchen table and sat next to the plate, carefully plucking a meat pie in her hands and taking a large bite. Jamie leaned against the table and sampled his handiwork, chewing thoughtfully.

“God, that is awful.” Brianna laughed. “It tastes like cardboard!”

“Are ye saying I canna cook, lass?” Jamie’s eyes sparkled teasingly.

“I’m saying these need more salt or something.” Brianna reached for the shaker. Jamie popped a second pie into his mouth,his cheeks puffing out like a squirrel. She knew he was doing it just to make her laugh, but couldn’t help but oblige him anyway. The thought struck her that some part of him probably wished he had come back earlier, when she was a child.

“What should I call you?” Brianna blurted suddenly. She had been wrestling with this for some time.“Daddy” is what she called Frank, and she loathed the idea of anything that might replace the man who had raised her. “Jamie” seemed too informal for a man who’s presence and dignity seemed to demand something more. “Father” seemed too cold and unapproachable, which was nothing like the man who had just stuffed a pie in his face to make her laugh.

“You can… call me Da.” His voice grew soft, and he looked down at the plate of pies, clearing his throat. “If ye want to, I mean.”

“Da…” Brianna tested the word. “I like it. Da. Is it Gaelic?”

“No.” He smiled at her, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “It’s only simple.”

Breaking the emotional tension of the moment. Jamie held up one of the stodgy pies.

“These are truly terrible.” He laughed.

“I know of some ham croissants that will be a hundred times better!” Brianna waggled her eyebrows. "And they have ice cream!"  


“Aye.” Jamie replied. “Let’s go to _Au Bon Pain_.”


	13. Boston Globe Offices, July 19 1967

_Boston Mayoral Candidate Louise Day Hicks reacts to an NAACP staff member during a segregation protest._

> **"CANDIDATE FOR MAYOR LOUISE HICKS SAYS “YOU KNOW WHERE I STAND,” BUT DO WE?”** ****

Jamie scanned the final draft of his debut column going to print that very afternoon. Double checking his prose, he was surprised to find himself a little jittery. His greatest concern was that once is writing was printed 520,000 times and distributed all across the town and the nation, a betraying turn of phrase or slip of word choice would catch the attention of someone out there who might know about the stones. He had poured over other contemporary columns and painstakingly built every sentence of this piece by imitating the diction of a modern writer.

He stared down at the draft of his article, reading it again.

> While Boston School Board member Louisa Day Hicks leads the Boston mayoral race as the “voice of the middle class,” her three point lead the polls over Kevin White and the ten other candidates has Bostoners wondering where she really stands on equal rights.
> 
> In the decade following the Supreme Court’s 1954 ruling _Brown v. Board of Eduction,_ Hicks’ school board voting record shows a reticence to enforce the law and carry out racial integration in schools, blaming Boston’s segregated school districts on “geography.”
> 
> During a dramatic sit-in protest on September 6, 1963, NAACP staff and members spent the night in the Boston School Board offices, including Hicks’, demanding equal funding for thirteen black Roxbury-area schools which received only a fraction of the money per student than predominantly white schools. Hicks told NAACP leaders, there was “no de facto segregation in Boston,” she maintained, “This is not Alabama; this is Boston. I shall not yield.”

Jamie grunted and grabbed a red pen from his desk, crossing out ‘<strike>maintained</strike>’ and writing ‘insisted’ above. He loved the feeling of the ballpoint pen in his fingers and the way it flowed across the page without dipping or needing sharpened: truly one of the most deliciously satisfying inventions of the twentieth century.

He had been thankful that a secretary typed up his hand written copy, Jamie was still plunking away at Claire’s typewriter under Brianna’s tutelage and his progress was slow. His thick fingers were clumsy on the keys and inevitably hit the wee hammers with too much force, leaving jarring-looking script. He studied diligently, however, fearing that his colleagues might become suspicious to find a journalist that couldn’t type.

> In an April interview with the Globe, Hicks admitted the likelihood that racially bigoted voters a large portion of her base. "But, after all, I can hardly go around telling them, `Don't vote for me if you're bigoted.’” Hicks said, “The important thing is that I'm not bigoted. To me, that word means all the dreadful Southern segregationist, Jim Crow business that's always shocked and revolted me.”
> 
> This use of the word ‘business’ as a way of distancing herself from Jim Crow reveals that Hicks intends to benefit from egalitarian rhetoric while maintaining the privileges of an unfair system. In truth, Hicks stands against segregation in word only, denying its very existence as it persists in the Boston school districts.
> 
> Although Hicks presents as a proper, lace-clad matron with delicate mannerisms, it is critical that voters look beyond the well-coiffed facade and take notice of these conscious-soothing euphemisms hiding Hicks’ policy record of discrimination.

The office outside Jamie’s door swirled with the bustle of final touch ups before everything got turned in. The _Globe’s_ political editor, Bob Healy, stuck his balding head into Jamie’s office with a wide smile.

“Howdy, Fraser!” Healy nodded as Jamie took his spectacles off his nose and greeted the editor. “Say, that’s some piece you did on Hicks’ school board record. Really sharp, just the tone we’re going for.”

“I’m verra glad to hear it, sir.”

“And Candice helped you alright with going through our archives?”

“Aye,” Jamie wrinkled his brow uncomfortably. “She was…” he coughed, “verra attentive to me.”

Healy raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“Not like that, man.” Jamie turned red. “The lass was making advances so I told her I was marrit.”

“I know.” Healy cackled. “She was gabbing to the other girls in the break room yesterday, crestfallen like a cat that had missed its mouse.”

Jamie felt anger simmering in his throat but made no answer.

“Don’t worry about it, happens all the time. If anybody is bothering you just let me know, I’ll keep those girls in line. You’re turning a lot of heads, Fraser —and not just because of your excellent work.”

“I thank ye for yer recognition of my work, Healy.” Jamie redirected, feeling uncomfortable with calling his female colleagues ‘girls.’ He knew the way men spoke about women, but he had assumed having women in the workplace would have erased those demeaning attitudes long ago. Jamie’s mouth quirked thoughtfully, wondering if he had been naive, yet again.

“One more thing,” Healy moved to step out of the office but put his hand on the door frame. “Winship wants to make an official endorsement of Kevin White.”

“And?” Jamie asked, confused.

“And, the _Globe_ hasn’t officially endorsed a political candidate for the last 72 years! Winship has serious concerns about Hicks and we want to throw our weight behind White.” Healy stepped back into the office and put his hands on Jamie’s desk, leaning toward him.

“Why don’t you and the wife come with me to White’s donor gathering this weekend? We can get dressed up, all the bigwigs will be there, …maybe you can get a hook for another column?” Healy flashed a winning smile. “Booze and politics? Eh?”

“I will speak wi’ Claire about it tonight.” Jamie replied. “I dinna ken whether she will be available.” He didn’t want to displease his direct report but felt more inclined to spend the weekend learning _tennis _with Claire and Brianna than he did schmoozing with Boston’s elite in a stuffy tuxedo.

“Call or leave a note with Nancy if you can make it, I’ll get us in.” Healy tapped the door frame amiably on his way out.

Jamie sighed, raking his fingers through the copper curls spilling from the top of his head. He hated the smell of pomade and rarely wore it; looking at his reflection in the window he saw that his spiraling splash of red hair fell loosely against the cropped sides rather dashingly. The wrinkles lining his eyes and mouth seemed to add depth and character to his firm features. Maybe sitting at a desk would fill him out a little bit and send the hungry eyes looking elsewhere, he grunted ruefully.

Looking out through the window, he could see the Boston skyline glittering hopefully in the summer sunshine. Below him, on Newspaper Row, shiny cars, yellow taxis and busses trailed down the street while herds of hatted heads dotted the sidewalk.

Repositioning his glasses, Jamie smoothed the paper on his desk to finish the final edit.

I swept into the foyer with a cheery greeting, dropping my hat and handbag onto the cushioned bench in the entryway and following the sound of Jamie’s resonant ‘halloo’ from the kitchen. I found him hunched over a pot on the gas stove, surrounded by empty Campbell’s soup cans.

“Double, double, toil and trouble.” I declaimed, grabbing him by the waist. “And what has Mr. Campbell concocted for us this evening?” I looked into the pot of beef and vegetable stew.

“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach.” Jamie smirked. “I’m no a cook, but I didna raise a stramish opening yon wee cans.” He squeezed my arse, kissing my neck. I pecked him on the lips and tasted the stew, adding a little salt and ignoring him as he rubbed suggestively up against me. I picked up one of the cans and surveyed its bright red label.

“Did you know Andy Warhol created thirty two canvas prints of these cans and it’s considered fine art?”

“I dinna ken who Andy War-hole is,” Jamie grunted, “but I find the least sensible aspect of the twentieth century is yer foul modern art.” I gathered the cans and rinsed them in the sink, dropping each one in the recycling with a 'plunk.'

“Well I suppose you’ll need to keep abreast of modern art trends in the publishing business.” I said crisply, feeling slightly defensive.

“Mphm.” He replied, with the most Scottish grimace imaginable. Turning back to the stew, he began with a new thought. “Speaking of the publishing business, we are invited to attend a donor reception for the candidate for mayor, Kevin White.” He looked up at me with a promising smile playing on the corner of his mouth. “It’s a formal occasion.”

“A dress-up sort of party?” I brightened. “We haven’t been to one of those since Paris.” I smiled at him fondly.

“Aye.” Jamie’s eyes softened. “But I canna forget ye in that red dress.”

“_Sang du Christ_” I remembered the most fashionable shade of 1744 in Paris society: ‘Blood of Christ.’

“I’m afraid we will have to appear in the elite circles once again, Sassanach.” Jamie smiled, testing the temperature of his stew. “If I am to carry out my duties as a political journalist.”

“I had been meaning to have you fitted for formalwear anyway.” My mind flitted back to a rather daring number I had spotted in the window of Filene’s downtown. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap.

“Have you seen Brianna?” I filled my glass and took a sip.

“No, I haven’a heard from the lass.” Jamie took the stew off the stove and began shoveling it into a pair of cream ceramic bowls on the counter.

My mouth twisted with worry. Of course Brianna was free to come and go as she pleased, I was only concerned by the long stretches of absence I had noticed lately. This morning I looked in her room and found her bed untouched: the sheets disheveled in the exact same formation as they had been yesterday. I cautiously decided against mentioning this to Jamie.

I had enjoyed watching Bree get to know Jamie, but had felt something of a rift between the two of us since my return. She was a self-assured, independent young woman just as I had been, but I was anxious to feel a connection with her again. Deep down I longed to hold her and smooth her hair like I had when she was a child, anchoring her as all the tension from our tumultuous year tumbled from her heart. But although we had repeated this ritual of unburdening so many times when her knee was skinned, her ego bruised, or her heart broken by a boy, the rules were rewritten in Brianna’s adulthood. I couldn’t compel her to be vulnerable with me, only she could initiate.

Later that evening, Jamie and I were tucked together on the sofa, noses buried in books, when I heard the door open carefully as Brianna crept in. I set my book down and Jamie said nothing, but gave me a purposeful look. Sliding off the couch I met my daughter in the foyer.

Her hair was unbrushed and she wore the same orange and pink floral button-down sun dress, now worse from wrinkles.

“Hi.” She greeted me with wary eyes.

“You’re back awfully late.” I whispered, not wanting Jamie to hear.

“Yeah. I stayed with Gayle in the dorms at MIT.”

“You and Gayle stayed in the dorms, you mean?” I said more accusingly than I meant. “Since Gayle is not a student at MIT?”

I should have known better than to provoke Brianna’s defiance. Her eyes flashed and her stance widened, clearly she was preparing to dig in.

“Both of us stayed with Lenny.” Brianna hissed. “His roommate was out of town.”

“So you slept on a men’s floor?”

“It’s a co-ed dorm, Mama. Stop being old fashioned.”

“What were you doing at MIT?”

“I get to have my own life, OK?” Brianna raised her voice. “You weren’t going to be checking on which dorm I was sleeping in when you were in 1765, were you?”

“That is not fair, Brianna. I came back because…”

“You want to know what I was doing at MIT?” She shouted. “I dropped out of Harvard.”

We stood in stunned silence. Brianna’s face was red and she was breathing heavily with indignation, but something flashed in her eyes that made me want to open my arms to her.

“I can’t study history.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I can’t look for my future in the past anymore.”

“Brianna. Come here, baby.” I reached for her and she crumpled into me. Smoothing her hair, I felt my own anxieties rush out with her tears. We sat on the padded bench and she wiped her nose, hiccuping.

“I’ve been asking myself where I belong and which of my fathers I am the most like -if I am more Randall or Fraser.” Brianna looked up into my eyes, offering me the tenderest part of her heart. “And I realized I am more like you than either of my fathers. I want to be brave like you, and find my own way.”

I gripped her hand and drew her close to me, tears falling from my own face now.

“I know I’ve been floundering lately.” Brianna said softly. “But if I can turn out to be half the woman you are, I’ll be fine.”

“Is that why you visited MIT?” I searched her face.

“Yeah.” She beamed up at me. “I want to be an engineer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Jamie's article contains real quotes from mayoral candidate Louise Day Hicks. The phrase "conscious-soothing euphemisms" comes from a 1967 article in The Reporter magazine, a concept that would eventually characterize the opposition's critique of Hicks' low-key racism.
> 
> Source Material:
> 
> https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2017/10/21/how-mayoral-race-changed-boston/Ye9fFmQFTrdXk0GKliF5kK/story.html
> 
> http://archive.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2003/10/22/louise_day_hicks_icon_of_tumult_dies/
> 
> https://www.moma.org/collection/works/79809


	14. Beacon Hill, July 21 1967

_Marilyn Monroe on the beach in 1953. The actress died on August 5, 1962 at the age of 36._

In the grand scheme of things I could do without centralized heat and electricity. Yet, even as someone who took pride in being adaptable whether jaunting atop a wobbly camel’s saddle outside Jerusalem with Uncle Lamb or sleeping out on a soggy Scottish moor with a band of Mackenzies, I had to admit that soaking in the hot tub was my ideal situation.

The steaming water made small trickling sounds as I sat up in the tub, reaching for a bar of my favorite lilac soap. My arm had a red line where it had been submerged and turned pink by the water’s searing heat. Scooping up a palm full of warm water, I lathered the soap into thick, luxurious suds, rubbing the creamy foam up my arms. The calming, herbal fragrance settled my nerves as I scrubbed the back of my neck and shoulders.

I looked up at the dress hanging on the bathroom window dressing to allow the wafting steam to let out any remaining wrinkles in the shimmering silk. It was an ambitious garment to be sure. I inspected my submerged form scrutinizingly, wondering if I should have chosen something that would have demanded less confidence from me. I had rarely felt self conscious about my body while immersed in the travels and travails of the eighteenth century, perhaps excluding the pressures of the gaudy court at Versailles. Now, nearing my fifties, I noticed a sudden sting of inadequacy every so often when I saw a voluptuous, curvy figure on a billboard or magazine cover.

I looked down at myself in the water. My slight, narrow frame struck me as girlish or underdeveloped compared to the alluring hips and spilling busts of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Joe had recently told me I reminded him of some model named Twiggy, but I couldn’t bring myself to research it in the wrinkled copies of People magazine at the nurse’s station. No sense in bombarding myself intentionally, even if the trends _were_ turning in my favor. It was ironic to me that I seemed to fall short of both the eighteenth and early twentieth century ideal of a full, blossoming fertility goddess but it had hardly seemed to matter before the relentless barrage of images and advertisements of the last two decades.

I drew my knees into my chest, watching the soap suds float away in foamy curtains like paintings of the sea shore. I thought about Brianna and her lean, athletic form. In my eye, her beauty transcended any cultural measurement. I imagined her in the various yet equally precious stages as she grew up and it suddenly hit me that I wouldn’t dream of critiquing her body the way I was shaming mine. The blurry memory of my own mother floated to the surface of my mind: a slight, tall woman who perhaps would have looked like me had she lived to her fourth decade. Gratitude washed over me as I stretched out in the tub, looking over the scars, stretch marks, pocks and divots that told the story of my survival and strength throughout my journey.

Whatever flaws the ad men in New York devised to sell me their day cream or panty hose, I knew their picture of the feminine form as a farce compared with the mysterious power of the human body. I’d seen people on the brink of death: the light in their body diminishing into a dim ember and then —seemingly without reason— flicker anew and brighten back into health. The body was meant for so much more than mirroring somebody else’s ideal.

I was scrubbing my toes happily with the long-handled wooden brush when I heard Jamie amble into the bathroom. Though my back was turned to him, I could hear the admiring pause in his step as he stood, watching me. Feeling a thrum of gratification at his reverend gaze I arched my back seductively, knowing a glimpse of one of my breasts was just barely, teasingly visible from his angle. A low growl proved I was right.

“Oh hello,” I looked over my shoulder demurely.

“Ye dinna ken what ye do to me, Sassanech.” He crossed the tile floor and knelt on one knee by the tub, kissing my shoulder.

“I think I know something of my effect.”

I reached over the edge of the tub and stroked the part of his brown pleated trousers that was looking a bit strained by the fabric. Drops of water trailed down my arm and dripped off my knuckles as I firmly handled his vulnerable bits. Gripping the edge of the tub, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned and a tie hung loosely around his thick neck.

“What time is the cab arriving?” I whispered with a teasing smirk.

“Hang the cab.” Jamie flung his belt open and his trousers and drawers dropped around his ankles. With his thumbs digging out of his stockings and hand haphazardly loosening buttons, he was naked in moments. I let out a small squeal as he vaulted himself into the tub with a mighty splash that drenched my head and spattered puddles across the tile.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense that Archimedes would discover the principle of displacement in the bathtub.” I sputtered, noticing a great damp spot on the adjacent wall.

“Eureka.” Jamie grinned impishly and lowered himself over the length of my body, kissing my neck. The heat of the water swirled through me as he pushed me back against the cast iron, I gasped softly as his lips brushed the sensitive skin below my ear. I reached up and ran my hands over the smooth planes of his body; each surface a new texture underwater: the gnarled scar on his inner thigh, the sculpted divot where his buttocks met his waist, the silky curve of his cheeks.

The water was still hot enough to steam slightly as our limbs tangled together. I could see Jamie’s cheeks flushed with heat as he kissed me, my damp hair clung to my neck and drifted around my shoulders as the water lapped around my chin. The cast iron of the tub was oddly cool where my shoulders and buttocks were pressed against it, held down by his searching, yearning weight. His hands traced my breasts, now perilously sensitized by the heat of the water; I shivered and bucked underneath him.

He slipped his hand between my legs and stroked the most sensitive point with one finger, letting a sly smile play at the corner of his mouth as my breath quickened, marking the water with steady ripples as the pace increased. The pressure was building and I let out an unwilling squeak.

“I like that sound.” He said attentively.

“Sorry.” I panted, opening my eyes.

“I said I like it.” His deep, rumbling laugh echoed off the tiled surface of the bathroom. “And I do. It’s one of the things I like best about bedding ye, Sassenach, the small noises that ye make.”

He reached up and grabbed both sides of the tub, drifting the lower half of his body down between my legs and sliding home with a firm motion. With the heat and weightlessness of the water, I could barely feel him moving above me but sensed his thick, intimate presence deep inside as gentle splashes rose up up between us. He drove himself deeper and I cried out; it was if he were seeking to anchor himself in my depths.

The wavelets around his body increased their volume and his voice growled in his throat. He found the deepest part of me again and again, aching to be united with my flesh and I began to feel the pressure simmering up to overflowing. Hot blood surged from the center of my belly down to the ends of my rubbery boiled limbs as I melted around him. His whole frame tensed up in ecstasy, jerkily finishing with several final surges into my core.

He let go of the tub’s rim, sinking down next to me so that the water was drawn up over us like toasty covers of a bed. I stroked his shoulders and he brushed a curly sprig of damp hair from my eyes.

“Was your new suit pressed for the occasion?” I asked, wiping stray droplets of water from his high cheekbones.

“The secretary had it done.” Jamie closed his eyes and sighed in utter satisfaction.

“Secretary?” I rose up out of the water slightly. “You didn’t tell me you had one.”

“I’m no a senior reporter, Sassenach. I dinna have my own secretary, and I dinna care whether the lass has two legs or four.”

“There must be a flock of pretty ladies working at the _Boston Globe_.” I stood and grabbed the big fluffy towel folded on the stool.

“Aye.” Jamie got up and stepped out of the tub. “But I wilna’ resent a lass her job just because of her fine arse.”

I snapped the towel at Jamie’s exposed buttocks with a satisfying crack and he leaped toward the shelf, grabbing his own towel and chuckling.

“Well you get your fine arse into that overpriced suit and you can give me a detailed report of your associates at the _Globe _on the cab ride to the donor banquet.” I gave him a jokingly peevish glare and swung the towel menacingly before going back to drying my dripping curls.

“Before we go, Sassanach, I want to look ye over in yer dress.” Jamie stood in the doorway and gave me a smoldering look. 

“Oh you will most certainly want to see it.” I smiled coyly.


	15. Faneuil Hall, July 21 1967

I heard the cab honk twice out in front of the house. With a final blot, I tucked my lipstick into my velvet clutch next to the scalpel, tweezers and small bottle of disinfectant I invariably carried. I stood back and beheld myself in the mirror. My hair was swept back from my face in a tight, semi-circle shaped bun at the base of my skull. Not a hair was out of place, and I had teased just a little volume at my crown to give it a subtle, fashionable lift. My lids were smokey with shades of brown rather than black, highlighting my brilliant champagne eyes and the defined arc of my brows.

Satisfied, I grabbed my elbow-length white gloves (which Brianna had instructed me I could hold, but under no fashionable circumstances put on) and clutch from the dresser and stood at the top of the stairs.

“Did ye hear the cab, Sassenach?” Jamie called, looking at his pocket watch. I smiled down at him, so polished in his fine black Italian suit that fitted his broad shoulders and tapering waist with precise tailoring. His hair was neatly set with just the slightest bit of pomade to give him an air of finesse rivaling Hollywood’s golden age. Jamie glanced up at the top of the stairs and gave me a look that gratified all my efforts.

Beaming, I slowly descended the staircase. The gown was floor-length with fitted silk charmeuse the color of whiskey; one thigh-high slit rippled gently around my legs as I moved, the fabric shimmering like pouring liquor. The v-shaped neckline plunged daringly to the center of my sternum, complimented by the string of Ellen Mackenzie’s pearls hanging long around my neck. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, it was clear Jamie was taken with how the silk clung to to every plane of my body, from the curve of my breasts to the small dents of my hipbones and the flattering accentuation of my arse.

“Not too much mutton dressed as lamb, is it?” I asked, suddenly worried.

“Never.” Jamie leaned toward me, smoothing his hand down the sleek, barely-there bodice and reaching down my behind me, squeezing a thick handful of cheek. “Although I ken that I canna let ye out of my sight for a moment tonight, Sassenach.”

“Concerned some other red-headed Scot will snatch me up, are we?” I smiled dryly, slipping my arms into a borrowed white mink jacket as Jamie donned his black overcoat and matching hat.

“I’m worrit I will find myself rotting in the Suffolk County Jail again after knocking some wee gomerol into the eighteenth century.” His eyebrows shot up ruefully.

“Discretion is the better part of valor.” I gave him a light kiss on the cheekbone and he offered an arm to me.

“Might I claim the pleasure of your company this evening, madame?” He bowed his head with genteel grace. Arm in arm, we floated down the steps to the waiting cab.

In fact there was a startlingly high percentage of redheads milling about the historic Faneuil Hall in downtown Boston. I had always found the presence of Irish American culture in Boston to be a comforting reminder of my time in Scotland, but the suspiciously frequent resemblances around me revealed that Boston politics must be a complex web of family dynasties. Practically everyone in the room looked related to somebody else.

The brick structure of the hall rose up majestically into a domed center where a large light fixture hung. The building seemed to have fallen into disrepair, but the caterers had lined the banquet tables with large candelabras that twinkled happily among lavish flower arrangements.

Cocktails in hand, we turned from the bar to find an entrance into the chatting fray of guests when we were approached by a familiar face.

“Fraser! How’s it going, pal?” Thomas Winship slapped Jamie on the back. He wore a red polka-dotted bow tie like a small protest toward his otherwise understated black suit. “And nice to meet you again, Mrs. Fraser.” Winship shook my hand warmly, discreetly not mentioning the circumstances of our first meeting. “Let me introduce you to our guy, Kevin White!”

Winship’s bubbling enthusiasm carried us through the crowd of elegantly-clad Bostoners to a cluster of suited men, each clutching a generous serving of whiskey. As we moved through the crowd eyes swiveled toward us: some in admiration, some in envy. Across the room, my eye caught a regal figure in a fitted, black lace gown. Her thick, voluminous brown hair framed doe-like eyes and delicate features. She commanded a radius of people’s attention with a cosmic, queenly energy; the room about us seemed to turn on her axis.

The woman locked eyes with me and her gaze tightened. Chin up, I commanded my face into a fortified smile, not allowing her scrutinizing energy to unnerve me. I too was aware of the radius of influence wrought by my physical allure, and while I didn’t care to wield it over anyone I certainly wasn’t the type to offer a gesture of submissiveness to someone I didn’t know.

“That’s Jackie Kennedy.” Winship was at my elbow, he waved at the woman with his whiskey glass and a disarming smile broke over the former first lady’s face. Jamie was turned the other direction, chatting with the mayoral candidate, Kevin White, and Winship gracefully drew me into their conversation.

“Kevin, this is Fraser’s wife…” Winship looked at me.

“Claire Fraser.” I reached out a hand, smiling warmly at the man in a refined, expensive looking suit. The candidate for mayor was a tall, trim man with a kind face yet a professorial remoteness about him.

“Charming,” White smiled with a distant look in his eye. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fraser.”

“Mr. White was just explaining to these gentlemen his plans to refurbish the city before we interrupted.” Jamie’s eyes glinted winningly.

“No trouble at all, Mr. Fraser.” White smiled. “These downtown buildings, especially around Faneuil Hall, are in dire need of attention.” He gestured toward the towering brick edifice of the banquet hall in which we stood. “I want to see Boston blossom into a world class city.”

“Here, here” A man with a white beard raised his whiskey glass.

“And what say ye about the Boston School district’s failure to allow black children to attend the wealthier schools? Why hasna the school board implemented the Racial Rebalancing Act of 1965?”

“God, you don’t mince words, Fraser.” Winship burst out laughing. “That’s why I love this guy, he charges balls deep into a crowd of Massholes, guns blazing!” He punched Jamie’s arm and leaned toward me. “—S’cuse me for the language, miss.”

“No, Fraser is absolutely right.” White nodded. “Boston is a veritable tinderbox, the issues of race are at the forefront of all our minds. I hope to execute integration cunningly, minimizing the backlash from Louise Day Hick’s miserable ilk.”

“You just watch, Kev.” A younger man in spectacles leaned in. “You get busses out there and Louise Day Hick’s fat ass will be squatting right in front of Lexington High like that fucking Governor of Alabama, what’s his name?”

“[George Wallace](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stand_in_the_Schoolhouse_Door).” Someone else chimed in.

“Oh yes," I chimed in, "Didn’t President Kennedy federalize the Alabama State Guard to have Wallace forcibly removed so the first black children could enter the school?” The men turned to me, surprised I had something to say, but nodded and grunted.

“What a nutty fucker! Wallace makes me ashamed to be a Democrat!” Winship plugged his nose with two fingers and imitated the former governor with a honky voice and fake southern accent, “_In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever._” Everyone laughed at the imitation, but the words, even delivered in jest, made me extremely uncomfortable.

“Christ,” Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Any man who thinks the people wi’ white skin are the greatest to trod the earth hasna meet my pealy-wally clan, nor my murderous Uncle Dougal!”

The men howled with laughter.

“Fraser, say that again!” Tears were streaming from Winship’s face.

“Eh?” Jamie grinned sheepishly. Winship made a serious, Scottish face and leaned into the circle.

“Murrrrrderrrrrr.” He trilled his r’s in his best imitation, evoking a fresh eruption of laughter.

“Evening, gentlemen!” Bob Healy, the Globe’s political editor moseyed up to the group with a martini in hand. He turned to Jamie, hand extended. “Fraser! Glad you could make it! This the wife?” I introduced myself politely and Healy showed us to where our name cards were placed at the table next to him and his wife, Janet -or Jan as she was called.

“Thank ye for the kind invitation, _a charaid_.” Jamie smiled as we sat down at the finely decorated place settings. I slipped into the seat across from Jamie next to Healy’s wife. She was a lovely woman with wavy hair and a clever twinkle in her eye.

“Are you feeling used to these star-studded affairs, my dear?” Jan leaned toward me, her bejeweled earrings swaying as she tilted her head knowingly.

“Oh you mean the Kennedys?” I smiled back and surveyed the rows of tables leading up to the head table where Jackie Kennedy presided over the feast. Her back was turned toward me, but her radiance seemed enhanced by the candle light. Her table was dotted with broad-shouldered red heads that could only be the Kennedy men.

“And the Forbeses, the Beals, the Berkowitzes… New England’s finest!” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her champagne. “And quite a few government officials too! It's lucky they keep those of us at the_ Globe_ well fed!"

“Wasn’t it Jefferson who said it would be undignified and criminal for the government to pamper its sycophants?” I gave a sly smile.

Jan shrugged and drained her glass. “If so,” She waved to her husband, “Bob had better be a darling and get me another undignified and criminal champagne!”

We both laughed.

Dinner was four courses, crowned with a decadent, falling-apart prime rib drizzled in a balsamic reduction. I had certainly mastered the art of elegant eating, but had to restrain myself from tucking into the rib with gusto. I was fairly hungry, especially after the athletic activities in the bath earlier.

The conversation trickled on throughout the meal and dessert, followed by a series of toasts to Kevin White and his admirable service as the Massachusetts Secretary of State. Several slightly inebriated men from Boston’s old guard stood and voiced their support for the mayoral candidate. I was beginning to lose focus when another man stood, his rugged complexion, piercing blue eyes and auburn hair making him look every bit a highland warrior as my own husband. The man had the same earth-turning presence as Jackie, in fact he had been sitting right beside her.

“My name is Robert Kennedy.” The man started in a clear, confident voice with the slightest Boston affectation but the measured intonation of an educated man. An applause erupted and Kennedy put his hand up, stooping one shoulder and smiling broadly so that his teeth stood out against his summer-tanned skin. “We’re all thankful today that Kevin White has promised to represent peace and justice for the city of Boston, and I know that if my brother were here…” He paused, blinking quickly, “If my brother were here he would be in full support of White and his defense of our liberties.” Dropping his arm that held up his glass in toast, Kennedy shifted his stance as if to address the crowd with a more relaxed attitude. The room was silent; even the servers stood still, watching Kennedy’s every move.

“You know, just this last week I was in Southie at Michael J. Perkins Elementary School. A little girl named Karen came up to me and said, ‘Mr. Kennedy, I want to stay in my apartment.’ So I asked Karen why her family needed to move. She told me her single mother, who works nights as a laundress, couldn’t afford to pay the rent anymore. Now I’m no enemy of business and real estate is an honorable trade shared by many of us here, but as this town booms with prosperity we can’t leave families like Karen’s behind.”

There were murmurs of agreement rippling throughout the room. The crowd’s energy felt like a heady shot of liquor as I looked over the faces of the spellbound Bostoners.

“I think you all are familiar with a certain campaign slogan, but I want to hear you say it loud enough for Karen’s landlord to hear down in Southie. Can you do that for me? ‘When the landlords raise the rent…”

“Kevin White raises hell!” The crowd shouted in unison, cheering and hitting the tables with their hands. Amid the deafening clamor Kennedy lifted his tumbler of whiskey.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s raise a glass to Boston’s next mayor.”

The applause continued long after Kennedy sat down. Bob Healy took a slug of his whiskey and elbowed Jamie.

“Jesus, if that Kennedy isn’t God’s only son.” He shook his head, looking around at the enthusiasm fizzing throughout the room.

“It would appear God had several sons then,” I said, “They love him nearly as much as they loved his brother, the president.”

“Oh, Bobby Kennedy is going to be president —of that I have no doubt.” Healy leaned back in his chair and we listened to the last speakers close the night. Kevin White’s address was scholarly and politically relevant, yet fell drastically short of the charisma and vigor of Kennedy’s moving words.

As the night ended, I gathered up my clutch and gloves. Jan leaned over to me and popped open the top of her fashionable handbag, revealing its hidden contents: a fifth of whiskey.

“Wanna share a cab to the after party?” She smiled at me coyly.

“After party?” I cocked my head, looking up at Jamie.

“Sure! Why don’t you kids come along?” Bob grinned. “A few of us are headed up to Hyannis Port for a little hobnobbing after the main event.”

“Perhaps we can come wi’ ye.” Jamie nodded. “Where in Hyannis Port is this wee gathering?”

“At the Kennedy compound, silly!” Jan laughed. “I hope you brought a bathing suit!”

Jamie and I stared at one another. I gave him a small smile, and he shrugged. Arm in arm we followed our friends to out into the cool streets of Downtown Boston, altogether unfazed by the prospect of paying court to yet another royal family.


	16. Kennedy Compound, Hyannis Port, July 21, 1967

_Ted Kennedy and the future first lady, Jackie Bouvier, on the lawn in front of the main house at the Kennedy Compound in Hyannis Port in 1953._

Nantucket Bay glittered with moonlight. The quiet estates and summerhouses that whizzed by along the seaside highway rose up along the shore like sleeping giants. Some houses were dark, others had glowing windows: signs of vacationers inhabiting these reaches of Cape Cod. I wondered if the population must quadruple during the summer. I gazed out the window, imagining that the large white clapboard houses were lonely during the winter when the bay darkened with heavy clouds and a freezing wind whipped up and down the beaches.

Jamie and Bob were laughing, chatting across from each other in the limousine’s posh leather seats. Janet nursed her fifth of whiskey and studied me.

“Do you and Jamie have a house up here yet?” Jan handed me the whiskey in a gesture to recapture my attention.

“No.” I smiled at her, accepting her offering and taking a companionable swig. “Truthfully I’ve more often had no house rather than two.”

“It’s alright, plenty of us trophy wives have rough backgrounds.” She winked. There was a note of humor in her voice that was meant to make me laugh, but I couldn’t help but blanche at the notion of being Jamie’s trophy wife. Despite our differences, I liked Jan and wanted to ingratiate myself in Jamie’s world.

“I suppose I am a self made woman from simple means, married to a Scottish lord —albeit a disinherited one.” I said, careful to adhere to Jamie’s and my agreed-upon story.

“My God,” Jan gawked, her round, thickly lashed eyes wide. “You mean he’s got a castle back there or somethin’?” Her Boston accent crept up in her surprise.

“A rather peaky looking stone tower that lists to one side —and not his anymore, but it was a lovely home, yes.”

“You Frasers never cease to amaze me.” She shook her head, ear baubles splashing against her cheeks.

We pulled down a long drive with sweeping green lawns past a few coastal-style white houses until we came to an enormous, four-level mansion with crisp white Nantucket clapboard, contrasting grey shingles and black shutters. The roof peaked in three places along the house’s front as if to suggest the home was three times the size, three times the charm, hosting guest three times more powerful and influential than the other mansions along the bay. Stately hedges guarded the front entrance and lined the edge of the property with privacy from the adjacent acreage.

As we stepped out of the cab onto the circular driveway, I noticed cheery red and white round banners hanging in semicircles from the eaves: undoubtedly from the Fourth of July. Jan had spent the first quarter of the drive gushing about the Kennedy’s fabulous annual Independence Day celebration at the compound. I had to admit it sounded fun cruising about on boats in the Nantucket Bay with an endless supply of whiskey, but I could hardly imagine relaxing in the presence of the Kennedys.

“Come on,” Jan took grasped my hand and we climbed the wide, wood plank stairs. Jan’s heel slipped momentarily on a step and she grabbed onto me with a girlish squeal. We clutched one another, laughing. She had a devil-may-care confidence approaching the massive estate that made me feel more at ease.

“Right through here, ladies!” Bob stood next to a well dressed staff member who held the large, heavy door open for us. He winked at me as we crossed the threshold. “The action is in the back, believe me!”

I looked at Jamie. He was surveying the house’s interior, which was well appointed, yet surprisingly normal. The walls were painted a crisp white with thick, handsome trim framing the rooms in the dignified, Cape Cod style. The furnishings were well made and doubtlessly expensive, but had a lived-in comfort about them that made the grand space feel less like a fancy museum and more like a home. Children’s plastic buckets and shovels were tucked under a padded settee and a stack of thick, patterned beach towels were piled nonchalantly next to a sturdy shaker cabinet. Clearly, the space was outfitted for casual living and vacationing.

Finding myself wholly disarmed by the unfussy ease of the Kennedy’s domicile, I whispered to Jamie. “I had expected an ostentatious glamor akin to Versailles.”

“Sassenach, people from yer time dinna like a king.” He said under his breath, a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. “Although I canna help but think even this home is carefully chosen to make yon Americans to see him as the king they want.”

“You mean the president, JFK?”

“Bob said he ran his campaign for president right here in these rooms.” Jamie nodded to the open foyer and adjacent living room where big windows looked out over the ocean. A few accordion-shade lamps and candles cast the spacious foyer and adjacent sitting room in a dreamy, warm glow.

Guests from White’s campaign event were gathered in clusters, each with a cocktail glass. Across the sitting area was a fully stocked bar cart, sparkling temptingly in the nearby light of a blazing fire. As the housekeeping staff took our coats, Thomas Winship approached us.

“Welcome to Hyannis Port, Frasers!” Winship beamed; he nodded to the Healys warmly.

“I am shocked to see you have arrived before us, Mr. Winship!” I smiled.

“Please, it’s Tom,” Winship grinned. “And it’s my job to be in the right place at the right time, eh?”

“Introduce me to your associates, Tom.” A slender, elderly woman with perfectly coiffed hair and brilliant, clever eyes crossed the room and stood next to Winship. She wore a fitted, cream linen skirt and matching short-sleeved blazer with a matching tucked-in ascot that gave her a smart, flawless appearance.

“Forgive me, Rose.” Winship nodded affably. “Jamie and Claire Fraser, this is Rose Kennedy.”

"Welcome to the Kennedy Compound, Mr. and Mrs. Fraser." Rose offered with a a charming smile.

“How lovely!” I shook the Kennedy matriarch’s hand.

“I'm like old wine.” Rose leaned toward me. “They don't bring me out very often, but I'm well preserved.”

“The wit on this woman!” Winship laughed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet ye, ma’am.” Jamie took her hand warmly as she looked him over, her eyes sparkling.

“Well, there is an accent I recognize from the old country!” She smiled demurely. “And where are you from, Mr. Fraser?”

“I come from Broch Mordha, in the Scottish Highlands.”

“I should have guessed.” She stepped back, beholding his massive height. “You’re every bit the Celtic warrior my grandfather was. Of course, he was born in Limerick, Ireland so you wouldn’t have guessed his ancestors had that distinct Viking influence of the northern regions. It’s where my boys get their height. You must be a good Catholic then, Mr. Fraser?”

“I’m no a saint, Mrs. Kennedy.” Jamie leaned in with a wry smile, his Scottish burr seemingly enhanced by the mention of his homeland. “But I am no ashamed to be called a Papist by these wee Protestants, aye?” He grinned at Bob Healy who snorted and rolled his eyes at Jamie.

As Jamie and Rose quickly became engrossed in a discussion about the pope, I found my eyes darting around the foyer for any sign of a bathroom.

“Psst.” Jan touched my elbow. “The shitter is down that hallway, third door to the left.”

Giving her a look of abundant gratitude, I followed Jan’s directions to a pleasant, floral wallpapered bathroom with a charming array of rolled up hand towels and french soaps stacked neatly for guests.

Coming out of the lavatory, I retraced my steps down the hall my eye was drawn to an open door that yielded a simply decorated sitting room filled with a gallery of family photos and memorabilia. Something about the Kennedy’s alluring power and charisma filled me with irresistible curiosity, I cast a glance down the hall and slipped inside, shutting the door quietly behind me.

The room had a hushed reverence about it: the floral wallpaper was barely visible behind the framed photographs, documents with thick wax seals and flags folded up in the military triangular shape. The faces of Kennedys young and old peered down at me from every angle of the room.

A set of relaxed-looking teak danish settees sat conversationally around the standard Cape Cod brick fireplace that graced most of the rooms. I crossed the rugged floor to an elongated credenza where several dozen framed photos crowded together like a kind of shrine: tallest frames in the back and shortest in the front.

There was a wedding photo of Jackie and the president JFK slicing their wedding cake, Jackie looked intently toward the cake while Jack wore a winning smile, ever aware of the camera. Jackie’s dress was regal, the neckline swept elegantly off the shoulder and fitted her petite waist before blooming outward in a silken flurry.

In another photo, darkened with age, a young Rose Kennedy gazed right into the camera, piercing onlookers with a knowing gaze. A wisp of silk crepe wreathed her shoulders and her mouth curled in the slightest smile as she clutched a chubby-cheeked child to her chest.

I carefully picked up a gilded frame showing a young soldier with dark hair and piercing eyes standing in front of a Royal Air Force plane. I immediately recognized the eldest Kennedy son, Joseph Kennedy Jr., who had been killed in a malfunctioning plane during a secret mission to bombard Hitler’s atomic bomb research facility during the war. Joe was wearing his Navy uniform but wore a pleasant smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. In the background of the photograph several young RAF pilots milled about by the plane’s propeller, seemingly in the midst of repairs.

My heart stopped.

I held the frame closer to my face and stared at a young RAF pilot in a scarf who’s face was turned toward the camera. His cheekbones and nose were so familiar, the hair peeping out from under his military hat was jet black.

I could have sworn I was looking at Roger Wakefield.

My mind raced. After the war, Frank had spoken very little about his intelligence work but had alluded to British efforts in giving the Allies time to achieve nuclear supremacy. Roger had told me his father, Jeremiah Mackenize, had been killed prior to an important reconnaissance mission. Could his mission have been to locate and bomb the Axes nuclear research facility with Kennedy?

“The Bastard Brigade!” I whispered, looking into the faces of the perished heroes. I wondered if I might have been wiped out in France had the Nazis been successful in creating a hydrogen bomb first.

I was so immersed in this revelation that my heart leaped out of my ears when the door handle jiggled. Panicked at the thought of being caught snooping, I darted away from the door toward the window dressing and shoved myself into the corner, throwing a thick window curtain around my body.

_Not the most original hiding place, Beauchamp_. I gritted my teeth and prayed my heels weren’t obviously visible under the edge of the fringed curtain.

From my hiding place, I could see a reflection of the room illuminated on the darkened window pane. The door swung open and two people fell into the room, tangled in each other’s arms. It was difficult to identify them until the man spoke.

“Jackie we need to stop this.” The man’s smooth tenor voice was tinged with the slightest Boston accent. “Are you getting married or not?”

“Ari is so dreary, Bobby.” The woman’s voice was like spider’s silk: thin and delicate, yet drawing the hearer into its persuasive web. It had to be Jackie.

“If you marry that man I will never forgive you.” The man’s voice was stopped by the sound of heavy kissing. Heat crept down my neck and I tried to breath slowly in the stifling confinement of my hiding place. The reflection in the window wavered and I could see Robert Kennedy’s face appear as he pulled himself away. He was directly facing the curtain that was hiding me.

“Onassis is a friend. You know I only took him to bed to get back at my whore of a sister, Lee.”

“Be straight with me, Jackie. I know you don’t feel safe anymore and it sounds tempting to let some Greek shipping magnate whisk you away to his private island.”

“You want me to be straight with you, Bobby? I don’t want you to follow Jack.”

There was a pause, and I could hear the pleather crinkling under an uncomfortable shifting.

“I’m not running for president, Jackie. Johnson’s poll numbers are still too strong.”

“Be yourself, Bobby!” Came the breathy, desperate reply. “Have your own career in the Senate, and for God’s sake don’t put yourself in the crosshairs of Johnson, or that miserable pervert in charge of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Darling Jackie,” Robert Kennedy’s voice took on a note of intimate tenderness, the way one would comfort a mother who had lost a child. “I will never leave you, you will always be home with me.” He paused, and I thought in his reflection he was stroking Jackie’s dark brown hair. “But we need to stop doing this.”

“I know.” She sighed.

In the mirrored image of the pair, I could see Jackie stand up off the settee and slowly. As if in a dream, she drew her black dress up to her hips as she knelt onto Robert Kennedy’s lap. She dug her nails through his copper hair and he pressed his face into the swell of her breasts. Reaching behind her pearl-clad neck, Robert delicately pulled the zipper of her gown down and eased the straps off her shoulders, freeing her from the waist up to his earnest kisses.

I could see Jackie’s face turned to one side as Robert drank in her creamy, flawless flesh, her thick, arched eyebrows drew together and her red lips were parted in arousal. The look on her face made me flush with embarrassment at my predicament —stuck in a curtain while the wife of a dead president and his brother made love only a few feet away. I peeled my eyes off the reflection in the window and stared into the thick weave of the drapes as Robert and Jackie’s passionate sounds increased. I willed myself to shrink into a tiny spec of dust and slip between the cracks between the floor boards below my feet.

Finally a sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall caused the fleshly sounds to cease, followed by a great shuffling and zipping. The footsteps faded and without a word, the lovers crept to the door and exited with a painstakingly slow creak.

I stole a glance at the reflection in the window and saw the room was empty. Gasping for breath, I flung the curtain back and darted to the doorway. Listening for the slightest sound, I slipped out into the hallway and made my way back to the parlor. The room still glowed with lamp and firelight, casting the clusters of smoking guests in a comforting warmth, swirling cocktail glasses sparkling in the low light like jewels. Winship approached me with a glass of whiskey outstretched.

“You look like you could use this.” He winked at me and placed the glass in my shaky hand.

“Thank you, Tom.” I sipped the sharp, malty liquid gratefully, wishing my face was less of a billboard for my feelings.

“The Kennedys can be real shockers, am I right?” He waggled his eyebrows at me knowingly.

“I’m afraid I’m just not used to being out so late.” I attempted to deflect. “How long have you known the Kennedys?”

“Well,” Winship’s eyes rolled up in thoughtful recollection. “My old man had close ties to Rose Kennedy’s father, the congressman John Fitzgerald—or “Honey Fitz” as we liked to call him. What a swell guy, a real charmer. Of course, you just missed the Kennedy’s Fourth of July party, I’ve been going to those since I was a kid. Talk about a raucous affair!” He chuckled, sipping his bourbon.

I smiled and hid behind my drink as Winship regaled me with stories about summers at Hyannis Port with the Kennedys, fishing, swimming and even accidentally flipping a boat in Nantucket Bay with the Kennedy boys.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Jamie marching into the room with a strange expression.

“Quickly, lass.” He grabbed my elbow. Leading me through the sitting room’s french doors into the office, he picked up a sand-colored plastic phone on the desk and handed it to me. “It’s Brianna.” He said slowly.

“Bree?” I gasped into the receiver. “Is everything alright?”

“Mama,” Her voice was steady, but clearly controlling a maelstrom of emotion. “I think you’d better come home.”

“Are you safe? Is anyone hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” Brianna said in a clipped tone. “Listen, earlier tonight I got an international call from Roger, he said he’s been trying to contact us for weeks!”

“Roger Wakefield?”

“He said something about not being able to convince someone, that they wouldn’t listen—but he got them American papers…”

“Brianna!” I shouted into the receiver. “What is happening?”

“…And then this guy showed up!” I heard a crash in the background of Brianna’s line, followed by a muffled, “Don’t touch that, you idiot!”

“Who is with you, Brianna?” I shot a panicked look at Jamie, his eyes were wide with alarm.

“Just come home, quick!”

Jamie and I spent the hour-long cab ride in worried silence. When we pulled up to the house we spilled out of the cab and flew to the door, bursting into the foyer in a tangle of coats, limbs and shouting our daughter’s name.

I spotted her red hair from the teal chair in the living room. In slow motion, she stood and turned to face us, pressing her hands to her corduroy skirt.

“Do you know him?” She pointed toward the other chair on the opposite side of the couch.

Jamie froze, blood draining from his face and my eyes jerked toward the figure sitting in the chair.

“Hullo, Uncle Jamie.” Young Ian stood, smiling as though his very presence hadn’t upended our entire twentieth-century world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -https://www.cnn.com/2019/08/02/us/gallery/kennedy-compound/index.html
> 
> -For more information about the "Bastard Brigade" (including a very vivid description of Joe Kennedy Jr.'s ill-fated role in bombing Hitler's nuke research facility!) the podcast American History Tellers has an incredible season about it. https://podcasts.apple.com/gy/podcast/the-bastard-brigade-the-accidental-a-bomb-1/id1313596069?i=1000444665298


	17. Beacon Hill, July 22 1967

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gone back and added a prologue and a flash forward to the beginning of the story to get a little sense of where we are headed. I am not sure if it works! Do you think it's helpful to get a glimpse of the main climactic moment in the RFK presidential race, or is it too specific and overwhelming? Thoughts appreciated!

Everyone started talking at once. Brianna was trying to explain why she had let a strange relative into the house while I was demanding at the top of my voice to be told how Ian had gotten to our time. Jamie was shouting words indistinguishable even to a native _Gaidhlig _speaker; his face was the color of an overripe tomato and he had rammed his shin into the coffee table in a violent movement toward his nephew, undoubtedly to throttle him.

Seemingly ignorant of the consternation he had caused, Young Ian was describing his transcontinental voyage in “a ship that flew in the air like a wee bird.” With excited gestures he was narrating how a nice young woman had given him the sweetest, most delicious chewing gum to help his ears, which he was grateful for until moments later when he had choked on it.

“For God’s sake, Ian!” I yelled above the din. “Sit down and tell us how you got here!”

Everyone blinked, clearly cowed by the fierce scowl on my face and we all mechanically sank down onto the furniture. I settled onto the couch next to Jamie, who was rubbing his shin and glowering with a soft growl rumbling in his chest.

“Auntie Claire, it’was just as ye said,” Ian began, “I went to the stones at Craigh na Dun —and there was such a great stramish about them! A screechin’ and a wailin’ like the deid!I was scairt near out o’ my breeks and let out a skelloch, but I kept my heid and came for ye, Uncle Jamie!”

“But it’s July…” Brianna frowned. “How did you get through the stones if it wasn’t one of the ancient holidays, or equinoxes or whatever?”

“I…eh…” Ian shifted uncomfortably. “I followed ye to the stones.”

“You passed through the stones when we did?” I fairly shouted. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Ian! Where have you been all this time?”

“Well I was right unsorted when I came out o’ the stones and I wandered the moor a’feared I hadna come to yer time until I found a wee hoose where a granny lived. I stayed wi’ her for a fortnight or maybe two. I kent I was in 1967, but I didna ken how to find ye! After I got the auld granny’s lambs out to pasture I worked on another sheep farm owned by the granny’s kin—a nice family, although they were Proddys. After a month we all went to a cousin’s baptism at their Anglican kirk in Inverness where I met a very auld parish priest: a man by the name of Wakefield. Ye ken him, aye?”

Speechless, we nodded.

“Weel, the Reverend’s son, Roger, was fair fashed to see me!” Ian chuckled. Jamie gripped his knees like it was the only thing keep him from making contact with his nephew’s face. “He got me an American passport!” Ian reached into his too-large trousers and pulled out a passport with a photo of a blonde, heavy-set 18 year old boy. “Look, I’m a man o’ the colonies now!”

“It’s not the colonies anymore, genius.” Brianna rolled her eyes and snatched the passport. “216 pounds! You’re not even half the size of… Clarence Shelby McAndrews? Are you kidding me?”

“Roger’s friend from Oxford got it for me.” Ian grabbed his passport back with an indignant huff. “And Roger taught me about how to live in yer time! We went and saw a _movie_: a whole wall covered in giant shapes that looked just like people and yer wee _auto-mobiles_ moving around like they were alive!” Ian grinned excitedly and began singing, “_We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine…_”

“Now hauld yer wheesht, ye wee daftie!” Jamie’s anger was reaching a boiling point. “Yer going back to Lallybroch this very hour if I ha’ to send ye to hell first!”

“He can’t go, Jamie.” I gripped my husband’s arm. “The summer equinox has passed: we have to wait until Samhain at least!”

“Christ!” Jamie kicked the coffee table, spilling the already disheveled stack of books and vase onto the floor. “Do ye ken yer mother is no alive in this time, ye bawheid? Or would ye prefer I skelp yer wicked arse until ye can see her puir face from the beyond?”

Jamie jumped up, loosening his belt and Ian scrambled out of his seat, crouching behind the winged-back chair.

“Uncle Jamie, I knew ye’d be fashed, but I promise I can help ye.” Young Ian yelled. “I can help sell yer wares!” He dodged as the belt buckle flew at him. “Or help mind yer business…ow!”

“Please, Jamie!” I grabbed his arm. “We’ll buy tickets to go to Scotland for the end of October and send Ian back. In the meantime, Brianna can mind him. Can’t you, Bree? Your engineering cohort at MIT doesn’t start until next fall?”

“What?” Brianna gaped. “Have you seen this eighteenth century lunatic? I can’t babysit him!”

“I’m no a loon!” Ian retorted. “And ye dinna have to sit on me, I’m no a bairn either!”

“She will sit on ye,” Jamie hissed, “Or ye’ll be feeling the full weight of my arse, ye miserable eedjit!”

“Oh, well that’s not quite how that idiom…” I sighed, rolling my eyes at the futility of arguing with Frasers. “Let’s all go to sleep, please.” I gathered up the blanket hanging over the back of the couch and handed it to Young Ian. “You can take the master bedroom down the hall, it’s empty.”

A snarl was twisted on Jamie’s mouth as we retired to our bedroom and didn’t leave his face as we climbed into bed.

“We will send him back, Jamie.” I whispered to him from my pillow. “I promise.”

“I ken Jenny isn’a here, Sassenach.” Jamie stared up at the ceiling. “But I canna help feeling her fetch is just out of my sight, glaring twa wee holes in the back of my heid.”

“She most certainly would, if such things were real.” I leaned over and kissed his temple, drawing my body through the crisp sheets, closer to his warmth. “Jenny will have her son back.”

The sound of a police siren several streets away was a strange backdrop to our thoughts about the Murrays and Lallybroch’s green, open spaces. Our limbs tangled, searching for steadiness in each other’s bodies to ward off the chaos of our day.

The next morning the warm smell of crisp, toasted whole wheat flooded the hallway leading to the kitchen. I stood in the doorway peering in at Young Ian, who was poised, ready for action in front of the toaster as if awaiting the starting gun to a mysterious race involving toast. The timer popped with a loud ring, golden slices of bread peeped from the edge of the toaster and Ian tumbled backward as if shot, laughing hysterically. He gingerly picked up the hot slices and placed them on a plate that was already stacked high with about a loaf’s worth of toast.

“Oh, Auntie!” Ian started when he saw me standing flabbergasted in the doorway. “Look! Wee Roger Mac taught me to cook in a modern _toaster_! And..” He raised his eyebrows authoritatively. “…I ken that men are meant to be helpful in the kitchen!"

“Roger Mac?”

“His real name is Mackenzie, ye ken? He told me ye kent his kin from my time!”

“So I did.” I shuddered, thinking of Geillis and Dougal’s ill-fated romance.

“I made ye breakfast!” He held out the plate of mostly cold, butter-less toast.

“How very kind of you.” I accepted a limp, crusty slice and gingerly reached for the butter dish. “Ian, you must let us help you adjust to this time. Things are not simple here and if people knew where you were actually from…”

“I can be useful, Auntie!” Ian grasped my arm earnestly. “I will heed ye and Uncle Jamie and go if I must.” He shoved a piece of dry toast into his mouth. “But seeing as I have four months, I plan to convince ye I am worth keeping!”

“Dear Ian.” My heart crumbled for him and his eagerness to please his uncle. “You needn’t prove your worth to us, we are mainly concerned about your worth to your family. Your father and mother will be worried sick about you! Were you to stay in this time permanently, you would never see them again!”

“And if I stayed in my time, I wouldna see ye or Uncle Jamie again.” Ian’s face was set, but underneath I could tell he was wavering with emotion. “They dinna need me at Lallybroch. I’m fifteen and a man now, Auntie Claire. In my time, becoming a man and leaving home means ye might nay return.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.” I said truthfully. “But you must understand, Ian, that your uncle has a responsibility to your mother.”

“Och, I dinna care what my mother says.” Ian scoffed. “She wilna see me as a man.”

“It’s difficult for parents to let their children go.” I took another, somewhat warmer piece of toast. “You’ll understand someday.”

Ian grunted and looked down at his dry toast.

“Auntie, have ye made preserves from the harvest?” He looked up at me.

“Actually I do have some jam, but its not quite as delicious as the preserves from Lallybroch.” I opened the refrigerator and unscrewed the lid of a large jar. “I suppose we’ll have to make do with Smucker’s.”

“Oh!” He nodded knowingly. “Food from the _grocery store_!”

“Yes, and I’m afraid grocery stores are even more garish in the United States than they are in little old Inverness.” I eyed him, wondering how his mind was computing this incredible transition.

“I want to see everything, Auntie!” He beamed. “I didna ken the world to be so… full of things, and people!”

A cheery double-honk outside signaled Joe Abernathy’s station wagon waiting for me.

“Sounds like I’d better get going.” I gathered my things and slipped my arms into a summery blue linen coat.

“I’m following up with a few patients at the hospital this morning but I will be back in the afternoon.” I gave Ian a look of motherly reproval. “Please try to stay out of trouble?”

“Dinna be worrit for me, Auntie!” Ian tucked a third, or perhaps fourth slice of toast into his cheeks and followed me through the hall to the door. As I stepped outside, Joe was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking over the paper while he waited for me.

“_Ah Dia_!” Ian squawked. “Brianna!” He turned toward his cousin, who had only just sleepily drifted down the stairs and looked less than pleased to see him.

“There’s a _Musliman_ in that automobile!” He gawked Joe looked up from his paper and waved at us.

“A what?” Brianna rubbed her eyes and frowned at Ian.

“A _Musliman_, wi’ skin so dark —like coffee!”

“Jeez, Ian!” Brianna blinked with recognition. “That’s our friend, Joe Abernathy. His skin is that way because he’s black, don’t be a racist!”

“I dinna ken what that means.” Ian glowered. “_Racist_. But I havena seen a man like that aforeand I’ll thank ye to explain it to me w’out speaking to me like a wee bairn.”

“Black people are not necessarily Muslim,” I stepped in. “I’ll blame your limited book collection at Lallybroch for that one. In fact, skin color is just that: a pigment in the top layer of your flesh called ‘melanin’ that is higher in some people, and lower in others. Inside we are all human, and we all want to be treated the same.”

“So I dinna have _melanin_?” Ian’s mouth quirked thoughtfully, looking over his extremely fair arms.

“Not as much as most people, actually. So if you meet a person with black skin, just treat them the same way you would a friend with white skin. It’s alright to feel shy when it comes to a new experience like meeting someone who looks differently from you, but it’s important to show others the respect and dignity they deserve. Politely ask questions if you don’t understand, and keep in mind that people of color have been mistreated for centuries, which has lead to a lot of racism and unfair things that still exist in our society today.” Joe waved at me with good humor and tapped his wrist watch. “I really must go, but you can ask your cousin anything —am I right, Brianna?”

“Yes.” Brianna sighed defeatedly. The cousins watched the station wagon speed down the dawn-streaked row of houses on Furey Street and stepped back into the house. They went into the kitchen and attacked the plate of dry shingles of toast.

“I read about slaves.” Ian murmured. “Are there still slaves, Brianna?”

“Well,” Brianna took on a more charitable tone with her cousin. “Slavery was officially abolished a hundred years ago in this country, but that didn’t end the poor treatment of people of color. For the last century they have had to deal with violence and negative attitudes from white people, a second-class status from the government and segregation: which is basically where people of color are kept separate from white neighborhoods, schools, restaurants, bathrooms, —even drinking fountains!”

“In Edinburgh there were places only the Sassenachs could go.” Ian frowned, wiping jam off his face. 

“Yeah, it’s a little bit like that.” She nodded, chewing absently on a crust. “Only imagine the English had enslaved all the highland peoples for centuries, built a wealthy new civilization on your backs and now denied you access to most of the benefits of that wealth by systemically keeping you in the lowest class.”

“All that, and I could still pretend to be an Englishman.” Ian murmured. “I dinna suppose it would be that easy for someone wi’ more _melanin_. They couldna just hide or pretend.”

“It isn't fair. Things that are difficult for our black friends, like the Abernathys, will be easier for you and me just because we are white. Noticing those injustices and supporting black voices as they point out necessary societal changes are two important ways to spend our privilege.”

“I want to ken yer friends, cousin. I wilna disrespect them.”

Brianna felt herself warming to Ian, but still her eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to hang out with my friends, under no circumstances can you use a word like _Musliman_, get it?” Ian nodded vigorously. “Just button your eighteenth century beak and you’ll be ok.”

“I’m going to _hang_ wi’ yer mates?” Ian’s face crinkled into a smile. “And ye dinna mean hangit…”

“No.” Brianna chuckled. “It means… we spend time together or work on stuff that’s important to us… or, you know, drink…”

“Are there any good pubs here?”

“Lots actually, but technically we’re both too young —the drinking age in Massachusetts is 21, which is totally uptight because a bunch of states have lowered it to 18 already.”

“We canna go to pubs?” Ian seemed shocked that a time of such abundance would have limits.

“I mean, there are lots of spots that won’t card me. You on the other hand look like you’re twelve.”

“I’m fifteen actually.” Ian puffed up his chest. “And a fully grown man.”

“Hold on…” A clever smile came over Brianna’s face. “Show me that passport again? I think Clarence McAndrews is eighteen.”

“A few years doesna matter, does it?”

“It matters if you want to come with us next weekend to New York City to hear the _Mamas and the Papas_.”

“I ken yer mother—“

“No, the band, dummy.” Brianna shook her head. “Like the Beetles, only these guys just blew up the nation with their Summer of Love rally in California last month!"

“Summer of Love?” Ian perked up at the thought.

“Do this.” Brianna held up two fingers and motioned for Ian to do the same. “It means peace. Just smile, and make the peace sign at the concert and you’ll be cool.”

“I’ll be cool!” A goofy, decidedly un-cool grin spread over Ian’s face, but Brianna was surprised to feel a protective fondness come over her.

“And don’t forget to be quiet.” Brianna emphasized. “Jeez, we’d better get you some different clothes. You look like somebody’s dead grandpa.”

“I dinna look deid!” Ian hiked up his oversized wool tweed trousers and brushed toast crumbs off the front of his stained, thick linen button down.

“I guess we can go to the mall, it opens in an hour.”

“Where are ye going, lass?” Jamie had come into the kitchen, drenched in sweat from a run. Ignoring Ian, he opened a cupboard and grabbed a glass from the shelf, filling it in the tap.

“Ian needs some new clothes so he won’t stick out like a sore thumb.” Brianna motioned toward her cousin’s ill-fitting getup.

“Can ye no go alone and retrieve a set of clothing for him?” Jamie eyed his nephew warily. “I dinna want this lot out gawping in the street.”

“I wilna draw attention to myself, Uncle Jamie.” Ian pleaded. “Brianna says I can be _cool_!”

Jamie shut his eyes and cast a betrayed glance at his daughter.

“Don’t look at me,” Brianna put her hands up defensively. “I have no idea what size this guy wears, and by the looks of those gangly arms and legs, we’re going to have to try several sizes before I can find something that isn’t too short or doesn’t hang off him like a tent!”

“Then I suppose we all must go.” Jamie sighed, wiping his sweaty forehead with the dishrag. “I wilna let my nephew get into any trouble.”

“Saturday at the mall with two eighteenth century highlanders.” Brianna’s eyebrows shot up. “What a gas."


	18. Natick Shopping Mall, July 22, 1967

“But is there no a Filene’s downtown?” Jamie’s brow was furrowed. “And a wee Sears only blocks awa’ from Furey Street?”

“Well, yeah…” Brianna gripped the steering wheel and focused on weaving through the highway, thick with Saturday traffic leaving Boston’s inner districts.

“Brianna says the mall is where all the young folk go to buy clothes and shoen!” Ian leaned forward in the backseat bench, poking his face between Jamie and Brianna.

“It’s new, it just opened up last year.” Brianna chewed her lip, wondering if taking her two-hundred-year-old relatives to a flashy shopping mall was a bad idea. “Oh hey, listen to this, Ian!” Brianna turned up the radio to play [the summer’s hottest song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZ6fqU7Nn_8) from the _Mamas and the Papas_. The interior of the car was filled with harmonies ringing out above the driving drums, heavy synthesizer and tinny strumming.

_If you are going to San Francisco_

_Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair_

_If you are going to San Francisco_

_You are gonna meet some gentle people there_

_For those who come to San Francisco_

_Summertime will be a love-in there_

_In the streets of San Francisco_

_Gentle people with flowers in their hair_

_All across the nation such a strange vibration_

_People in motion_

_There is a whole generation with a new explanation_

_People in motion people in motion_

Ian was humming along and tapping his knees with his fingers. The jagged outline of the city was fading behind them and the Boston suburbs opened up on either side of the highway. Green parks and beautiful new school grounds marked the expansion of these Greater Boston neighborhoods.

“I canna help but think this is a strange Quaker song.” Ian mused.

“Many people in this time have Quaker notions.” Jamie replied. “They dinna believe in fighting or violence.”

“Not even to keep their lands safe, Uncle Jamie? Why?”

Jamie grunted and stared out the window. “In the face of an un-winnable war, it stands to reason many would turn to other methods of securing peace.”

“Da, I thought you didn’t approve of draft-dodgers.” Brianna said softly.

“I faced the English on Culloden Moor knowing the day was lost, but…” He drew in a breath slowly, “I sent the men of Lallybroch home.”

“You protected them.” Brianna felt her heart squeeze.

“I dinna ken very much about myself, Uncle, but I think I wasna born to be a Quaker.”

A chuckle rumbled in Jamie’s chest. Brianna pulled into the entrance of the Natick Shopping Mall and circled the parking lot, finally squeezing the station wagon into the first available and very tight parking space.

“Mind yerself opening yon door…” Jamie said to Ian as his door slammed into the side of a Wagoneer parked too closely. With a volley of _Gaidhlig_ curses, Jamie dragged Ian out of the station wagon and licked his thumb, rubbing out the small mark made on the Wagoneer’s passenger door.

“People in this time dinna like it when ye scratch their wee autos!” Jamie hissed, cuffing Ian.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Jamie!” Ian ducked his head like a scolded dog.

The odd trio collected themselves and strode toward the imposing, landscaped entrance of the Natick Shopping Mall. Without pausing, Brianna slipped into the carousel doors and pushed the churning panels around to the other side before she realized her mistake. Ian balked as the opening between door panels passed him several times until Jamie grabbed him by the collar and pushed him into the carousel.

“Sorry, I forgot there was a trick to those doors.” Brianna shrugged sheepishly, but the look on both Jamie and Ian’s faces erased any memory of the door. The building was air conditioned; every surface a sleek, glossy tribute to the Space Age with two floors packed with rows of shops and a sparkling water fountain in the center of the atrium. Palm trees filled the tall corridors, giving the feeling of a transcendent vacation from reality.

“And this is where yer counter culture rebels purchase their anti-capitalist costumes?” Jamie turned to Brianna with a wide, teasing smile.

“Come on!” Brianna reddened. “I love a good charity shop, but I’m afraid this guy is going to need some tailoring.”

“I think I’m going to need everything.” Ian had turned to their left and was mesmerized, facing a rainbow of sweets adorning the shopfront of Fanny Farmer Candies. Brianna grabbed her cousin’s arm.

“Be good in Filene’s and I will get you an ice cream.” She gripped the young bewildered highlander and started down the walkway, her father trailing behind them and shaking his head.

Filene’s had been a Boston classic for decades and Brianna’s family had furnished their wardrobes with its fashions ever since she could remember. She fluidly wove in between the dramatic furniture display at the store’s entrance and lead Ian and Jame through dizzying stacks of shiny toasters and dinnerware until they reached an escalator.

“Oh no.” Ian gulped. “I’d rather keep my legs than stand on that wicked devilry!” They paused and watched as Filene’s shoppers placidly stepped on and off the two moving staircases.

“Look,” Brianna pointed to the passengers getting off the descending escalator. “They’re fine. They still have their legs.”

“You first, Uncle Jamie!” Ian covered his eyes.

With a sigh, Jamie set his jaw and stood at the base of the moving stairs. He looked down where the steps were forming in front of his brown oxford shoes and stepped onto the escalator. Gripping the moving rubber banister, Jamie looked back and shrugged at Ian.

“It’s easy, just get on!” Brianna pleaded.

“I canna do it.” Ian shook his head. A line of disgruntled shoppers had formed behind him and a particularly steamed woman muttered something rude under her breath.

“Come on, hold my hand. Just a little closer, there we go! Now step on!” Brianna was riding up the first steps and holding Ian’s hand, but like a stubborn mule the lad would not board the escalator. Neither would he let go of his cousin as she ascended.

“Brianna!” Ian shrieked and flopped forward onto the moving staircase. Scrambling, he clawed at Brianna’s legs and she grabbed his shoulders, heaving him upward. Ian stood trembling and wonky-legged like a newborn foal, clinging to Brianna and the rubber banister. Brianna cast a chagrined look down at the passengers below them, all gawking at Ian.

The top of the escalator came before Ian had fully recovered from his perilous boarding at the bottom: he spilled out onto the top floor, taking Brianna down with him. Jamie had been waiting on the landing and with two sturdy arms scooped them both up onto their feet.

“Next time let’s just take the elevator!” Brianna panted, dusting off her red high-waisted culottes and denim blouse.

“Ele-what?” Ian gasped, still shaking.

“Where are these clothes, aye?” Jamie lent a steadying grip to Ian’s elbow and nodded at Brianna. Heading to the men's department, the trio was met by a mannequin in a long navy velour jacket, matching bell bottoms and an Edwardian-looking shirt with lace detailingdown the front reminiscent of a jabot.

“This looks verra nice, don’t ye think, Brianna?” Ian stopped in front of the mannequin and stared.

“It looks like something straight off of a drunk Elvis impersonator!” Brianna snorted.

“I might have worn something of this sort in Paris before ye were born.” Jamie stood with his hands behind his back, remembering walking into Maison Elise wearing a long navy silk velvet jacket, ruffled shirt and laced stock. “Only I wouldna wear such miserable wide pants!”

“What about these? This is a very stylish look right now!” Brianna pulled a pair of light wash flared jeans from a rack. The denim had several quilted patches on the knees and thighs.

“Why would they sell auld worn-out trousers at a fancy store like this?” Ian wrinkled his nose.

“I forgot who I was shopping with.” Brianna gazed heavenward.

“Can I help you nice people find what you’re looking for today?” A cherub-faced, middle aged sales associate in a stylish pant suit approached the three of them.

“We’re here for some new basics for him.” Brianna pointed toward Ian. “He’s from the old country, you see, and he lost his suit case on the flight over.” She explained with an instructive voice, nudging Ian to play along.

“Well it looks like you came to the right place!” The saleswoman bubbled with enthusiasm. “What are your sizes?”

Brianna and Ian paused, looking wildly at each other.

“His mother does the shopping.” Jamie interjected. “And he doesna ken these American sizes.”

“No bother! Why don’t we get you into a fitting room and I can measure you straight away?”

The sales associate whisked Ian to a back room with red carpets and dramatic lighting where he stood nervously in front of a three sided mirror.

“Hold still, don’t move!” Brianna mouthed, making eye contact with a wide-eyed Ian in the mirror as the sales associate wrapped a long measuring tape around his waist.

“Just going to measure your inseam, here…” The woman bent over and held the tape near Ian’s sensitive bits and his cheeks turned a bright shade of magenta. “Very good!” She straightened up. “Now your girlfriend has found some jeans and shirts for you. I’ll go and grab your sizes. Would you like to step into that dressing room and I’ll bring them for you to try on?”

“Ah, well… she’s no my…” Ian’s face bloomed with embarrassment.

“Just back there, to your left behind the curtain.”

As Brianna came back into the fitting room with yet another stack of clothes, Jamie caught her arm. He wore a distracted expression.“Can ye find Ian the proper clothes? I saw some business I need to attend to.”

“Sure, Da.” Brianna shrugged.

“I’ll be back in a wee bit.” He grunted and disappeared through the racks of clothing toward the escalator.

Brianna sat on a cushioned chair opposite the three way mirror and waited for Ian to emerge.

“Is this his first trip to Boston?” The sales associate’s eyebrows told Brianna she was finding Ian to be an odd client.

“Yes, he’s from way out in the Scottish Highlands on a farm. Never gets to town.” She laughed nervously, “Ever!”

“Well we’ll get him outfitted in something that will downplay that fish-out-of-water thing he has going on!” She whispered, winking at Brianna, who rolled her eyes as soon as the sales associate’s back was turned.

Ian stepped out to face the three way mirror in a simple, flattering pair of dark bootcut jeans, a pinstriped collared shirt and a grey tweed vest. Paired with his mercifully decent haircut from Roger, Ian’s overall look was far less betraying. Stylish, even, Brianna thought. The sales associate bent around Ian’s ankles, cuffing the jeans to the proper length and pinning them, promising the on-site tailor could have them the right length within the hour.

“You look good!” Brianna smiled with her mouth, eyeing him fiercely in the mirror and willing him not to say anything strange.

“I do like it.” Ian smiled at himself charmingly. “And this vest has twa wee pockets where I can store my fishhooks and knife!”

“Very nice, Ian.” Brianna said with gritted teeth. She stood and thrust a hanger with a black short sleeved turtle-neck at him. “Now try this on and don’t mention anything about your dumb fishhooks!”

Looking completely unfazed by Brianna’s wrath, Ian plucked the hanger from her hands and swanned back to the dressing room to try on another outfit.

“I think he’s enjoying this quite a bit!” The sales associate chuckled with a motherly smile.

“Too much, I’m afraid.” Brianna's eyes narrowed at the dressing booth where she could have sworn she heard an unhinged giggle.

Jamie wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but he imagined he would know it when he saw it.

This discreet corner of the department’s store’s second floor hadn’t been totally visible from the landing where he had been waiting for Ian and Brianna, but from several yards away his eye was drawn to the shape of a dress form wearing bright red brassier. Curiosity had fizzed in the back of his mind until he had been unable to resist the idea. Now, standing in front of the display tables with rows of silk and lace underthings, he felt unsure of where to start.

Filene’s had always been clever about their lighting throughout the store, but this corner was especially moody, with spotlights illuminating the wood paneling and sultry displays. At the entrance of this section, racks of everyday cotton greeted shoppers, but further in the back Jamie could see daring bits of black ribbon and silk —garments so unsubstantial that Jamie did not believe their price tag reflected material costs.

“_Bonjour, monsieur_.” A delicate, small-framed woman with spilling curls and dark eyelashes stood politely in Jamie’s periphery. “May I be of some assistance?” She had a thick french accent, which was quite on the nose, but Jamie felt himself relax.

“_Je cherche un cadeau pour ma épouse_.” Jamie unconsciously found himself using French to explain that he was looking for a gift for his wife. Somehow, the French and their comfortable clarity about sexuality felt like a safe way to distance himself from feeling like a pervert walking through the racks of women’s lingerie.

“_C’est charmant!_” The woman’s eyes sparkled, her thick lips curving with a small smile. She asked about the woman Jamie shopped for; her eyes flooding with delight as he described Claire’s exquisite beauty and understated, refined taste.

“And how do you wish to see your wife?” The woman asked, laying out the concept with a phrase that could only come from a French mind. Jamie placed his hand on the table, replying with a vivid frankness he would have never used in English, nor even _Gaidhlig_.

With an enchanted smile, she nodded in recognition.

“_S'il vous plaît, attendez_.” She motioned for Jamie to wait and came back with several hangers over her arm. “_Cette_?” She showed him one, and he shook his head murmuring that it was too busy.

_“Préférez-vous cette?_” She held up one that instantly captured his imagination.

“_Oui_.” Jamie smiled.

“An excellent choice, monsieur.” The woman sighed while wrapping the delicate garment in tissue paper and placing it in a small box. “I only wish there was a man who wished to see me this way.”

“Wish instead for a man who can see yer heart.” Jamie took the box and paid for his gift, holding it discreetly in one hand as he made his way back to the men’s department. He found Ian and Brianna carrying armloads of bags and boxes: the former with a wide, silly grin and the latter with an expression that could kill.

“Did ye find enough clothing fer Young Ian?” Jamie surveyed the abundant packages.

“Well he won’t be naked, that’s for sure.” Brianna scoffed. “I need a beer.”

“So do I!” Ian chimed in.

“Well there’s only one place where yer both allowed to drink here in Boston.”

“And where is that, Uncle Jamie?”

“Home.” Jamie jerked his head toward the building’s stairwell he had noticed while back at the lingerie section. “Let’s go. I’ll buy ye a six pack on the way back.”


	19. Boston General Hospital, July 26, 1967

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: explicit racist attitudes from two bad characters and one slur (censored.) The negativity is directly confronted in this narrative.
> 
> This is based on an article I read a while back about racial discrimination in medicine. Super sad and tough stuff but I think important to reckon with.
> 
> To get back to the main plot line, skip down to the ***

“Well, I’m not a plastic surgeon, but these sutures are the latest technique and should leave a much smaller scar.” I smiled at the young man, carefully tying the last of the stitches to a rather nasty head laceration.

“I appreciate your consideration for my vanity, doctor.” The black student’s face crinkled into a smile, followed by a small wince as his skin stretched the wounded area. "But if you don't mind, there's a particular girl who I'm hoping might actually find this kind of weathering to be an added charm." His eyes danced. 

"She's a lucky girl." I winked at him.

Over the intercom, I heard a code paging all available doctors to the emergency room.

“You said there were other students involved in the incident?” My brow furrowed, wondering if a significant emergency dispatch was on its way to the hospital to warrant the attention of every doctor in the hospital.

“Yes, ma’am, a group of us from the Young NAACP chapter were sitting in at Zippy’s Diner.”

“I didn’t know Zippy’s was segregated, how awful.”

“Just because they take the signs down doesn’t mean they’re friendly to people of color. They refused to serve my friend Charlie last week, so we organized our whole chapter to show up at 11 today. We sat at the lunch counter, just minding our own business like anybody else. Then things got ugly.”

“Lady Jane?” Joe Abernathy walked into the ER, tying a thick polyester trauma gown over his white coat and scrubs. “You’re here already?”

“I’m filling in for Dr. Campbell today.” I put my instruments on the tray and excused myself from my handsome young patient.

“There’s been a violent scuffle at a diner downtown.” Joe leaned in toward me, speaking in a low voice. “Three ambulances are on their way here and they were just getting wind of a fourth when I got down here.”

“Steady, Joe. We’re in for a busy afternoon!” I threw the trauma gown over my neck and tied it firmly around my waist.

The ER flooded with nurses and doctors suiting up as the sound of ambulances howled outside. Joe and I ran to meet the first ambulance as the back doors flew open. With a team of nurses, Joe sprang to the first patient out of the ambulance and I took the second.

“I’ve got a female, early 20s, 144/90 BP, tachycardic with blunt force trauma to the head and chest lacerations.” The paramedic chirped, continuing chest compressions on the patient. Two EMTs followed behind and lowered the patient’s gurney with graceful speed. I checked the young black woman’s pupils as an EMT squeezed the bag keeping her breathing and the paramedic percussed her heart.

“Some psycho with a kitchen knife did this!” I heard an EMT say.

“Hang two units of O neg in Trauma Room Two.” I commanded the nurse who ran ahead of me into the ER. As we raced into the staging area, the young man with forehead stitches leaped off his hospital bed and rushed toward us.

“Mary? Oh God, Mary!” His face was twisted in pain. A nurse stepped in, holding his shoulders back.

“Stay clear of the sanitary field, sir!” The nurse said firmly.

“Please help her!” The man cried, a sob wringing his voice.

As we pushed the gurney through the ER toward the trauma room, I clamped a hand down on a packed wound where the gauze was oozing dark red: the knife wound ran from the woman’s clavicle to just above her arm pit and looked dreadfully deep.

“You!” I yelled at a young male intern running alongside me. He pointed to himself. “Yes, you! Go page Dr. Bennet or anyone in Neuro.” The intern left my side and ran toward the ER front desk. We ducked into the trauma room and began our speedy orchestra of intensive care.

“160/120 and rising.” A nurse declared the blood pressure reading. Two more nurses were packing the wounds on the woman’s shoulders and arms.

“Stop the compressions,” I asserted, spotting a bruise above the woman’s breast. “She’s in cardiac tamponade. I need to relieve the pressure in her pericardium.”

I visualized the blood from the impact to her chest filling the soft pericardial tissue around her heart and squeezing the muscle. Stripping back the woman’s shirt I counted her ribs and pressed the scalpel into her delicate skin, creating a small pericardial window. Quickly I placed the shunt and a rush of blood confirmed my suspicions.

“130/90” The nurse called a more stable blood pressure, and I released the breath I had been holding.

“Please tell me that someone from Neuro is on their way?” I shouted. The woman’s pupils were still unresponsive to my small flashlight. We intubated her with practiced speed and as I watched her chest rise and fall I wondered what was taking the neurologist so long. My head snapped up at the intern who had just returned, gloving up as if he had something to contribute.

“You!” I yelled. “Where is Dr. Bennet?”

“He’s finishing up on a patient with a headache.” The intern pulled his mask down from his face.

“A headache?” I snarled. “Did you deliver the proper code for requests from the ER floor, Dr…” My eyes found his name tag. “Dr. Evans?”

“Well… Dr. Bennet’s patient… you know…” He widened his eyes and gestured down at the black woman and shaking his head. A rush of anger stirred in my stomach and I commanded a nurse standing in the doorway to physically fetch Dr. Bennet.

“I do not know, Dr. Evans.” I turned back to the intern, my voice bitterly cold. “Explain to me why the hell a headache would receive priority treatment over a possible traumatic brain injury?”

Dr. Evans looked at me with a wide, bewildered gaze as if he expected me to understand some secret code he didn’t want to verbalize out loud.

“Dr. Bennet’s patient get’s priority… he isn’t…”

“Isn’t black?” I snapped. “Be specific Dr. Evans, did you tell Dr. Bennet the race of this patient?”

“I… uh… yes! There are a lot of patients in the building ma’am, I wanted Dr. Bennet to have all the information to assess priority…”

“You keep saying priority, Dr. Evans.” I snapped. “But it seems you are unable to perform basic medical triage. Patients are assessed and treated based on their condition, not their race, is that clear?”

The intern stood, blinking rapidly. His face grew an alarming shade of crimson.

“Now get the fucking hell out of my sight and do not set foot in my ER again today.”

“I’m going straight to HR, you bitch.” Dr. Evans muttered, fading out of the trauma room and storming out through the chaos of the buzzing emergency room.

Acrimony roiled in my gut when Dr. Bennet walked into the trauma room, but for the patient’s sake I tabled my frustration. He grabbed her chart and grunted, looking over the contents. I took note of his every move as he sluggishly meandered to the top of the patient’s bed and unceremoniously lifted her eyelids while rotating her head, examining her oculocephalic responses.

“Brain dead.” He said almost immediately.

“What?” My heart was in my throat. “The patient is exhibiting spinal reflexes, check again.”

“You can get an apnea test if you want.” He shrugged.

“But if you’re wrong, and I believe you are, an apnea test can cause cardiac arrest!”

“Some spinal reflexes are standard in brain dead patients.” Dr. Bennet handed me the chart and looked down at me with a condescending expression. “Or could even be a Lazarus reflex, but my guess is you’re seeing things you want to see, Dr. Randall."

“I beg your pardon?” I scoffed. “Are you questioning my judgement?”

“I think you let your feelings get in the way of practicing medicine.” Dr. Bennet sneered. “Doctors need to be completely rational, free from emotion and the interference of a menstrual cycle.”

“Is that so, Dr. Bennet?” I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. “And what was interfering with your judgement when you ignored a 911 Neuro consult request from the ER to treat a headache instead?”

“My patient could have had an aneurism.” Dr. Bennet snarled defensively. “Yours is brain dead and it seems like you might be too!"

“Dr. Bennet, you have crossed several lines today.” My heart hammered in my ears. “You are wrong about this patient and you’re wrong about me.”

“Fine! Stay here and nurse this brain dead n***** if you want, but I’ll be attending to the real patients.” Dr. Bennet snorted and left the trauma room. I reeled back as if stabbed by his obscene words.

“Did you hear what he said?” I looked at the two nurses silently drifting about the patent. They looked up at me and nodded, eyes filled with resentment and rage. I ran to the nurse’s station and grabbed three incident report sheets. I handed one to each of them.

“Please write down exactly what transpired in this room just now.” I instructed. “I’ll be damned to hell if I allow that man to continue practicing his bigoted brand of medicine in this hospital.”

***

I stayed with the woman on the ventilator until the afternoon had stretched into evening. I tried to time my own breathing with slow whooshing of the machine keeping her alive as I sat slumped in the corner of the room on a chair, scrawling out on my clipboard a formal complaint about Dr. Bennet’s appalling behavior.

One of the nurses who had been at the scene with me earlier slipped into the ICU room and stood before me, hanging her head.

“Dr. Randall?” She began in a heartbroken tone of voice. I knew before the words left her lips what she was going to say. “I believe in what you’re doing… about Dr. Bennet, I mean. He has been groping the nursing staff for years and I hate it… but George was just laid off at the factory and I’ve applied a charge nurse position in med surge.” Her face fell. “I can’t get in the middle of this.” She held up the form I had given her earlier.

“It’s alright, Cecelia.” I nodded weakly at her. “I understand.”

“You were brave, Dr. Randall.”

I didn’t reply, but stared at my patient: watching the mechanics of medicine support her just as its infrastructure was failing her. The nurse crept away, crestfallen.

“I’m not going anywhere, Claire.”

I looked up and saw the hardened face of the second nurse, Louise, who had been working in the hospital since before I was a medical student. She was a single mother with two sons in high school: both were decent students and had college aspirations, making Louise’s support the costliest gift she could give me.

I stood and gripped her arm, tears springing into my eyes. “Thank you, Louise.”

“That son of a bitch has had free rein of this place for far too long.” She smiled, handing me a detailed copy of the incident report complete with her name, signature and employee ID number.

With my heart buoyed, I sat back in my chair, grinning.

“Come on, Mary.” I spoke quietly to my patient across the room. “Let’s prove those bastards wrong.”

I willed her to wake up, not just for the small thing of my stand against Bennet, but for her stand against the cruel people in Zippy’s Diner. Feeling some small voice prompting me to check her reflexes, I got up and gently lifted her long-lashed eyelids. Her responses remained unchanged.

“Dear Mary.” I whispered. “Thank you for being brave today. I promise I will be brave for you, too.”

“Sassenach?”

I turned to see Jamie’s shadow filling the doorway of the dimly lit hospital room.

“Jamie!” I rushed into his arms. “How did you get into the intensive care unit? Let’s go to my office.”

“Yer nurse friend, Louise, called me and let me in.” He said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as we walked the fluorescent-lit hallway past the nurse’s station.

“And you answered the phone.” I smiled, eyes sparkling up at him. “Good for you.”

We reached my office and locked the door, collapsing onto the wide, modern sofa lining the wall opposite my desk. I relayed the events of the day to Jamie, gratified to hear every different variety of Scottish murmur rumble in his chest as he followed the details of my distressing interactions.

“That foul bastard, Bennet, doesna ken the fragility of his own emotions.” Jamie snorted.

“I have always appreciated your self awareness about your own feelings, Jamie.” I curled up against him, sighing deeply. He reached around my shoulders and drew me closer.

“Claire. I havena been honest wi’ ye about something.”

“What is it?” My lips trembled. I wasn’t sure I could handle any more drama.

“It’s about Kennedy.”

“What about him? Or _her_?” I recoiled.

“Just before Brianna called us in Hyannis Port, Bob Healy introduced me to Robert Kennedy.” He began slowly.

“Oh," I relaxed. "Well, how was it?”

“I knocked his lights out.”

“You _what_?”

“Healy took me to a small hidden room downstairs, it was built like a wee ship’s hold wi’ whiskey, scotch and all manner o’ fine liquors —it was finer still than Jared’s private collection in Paris!”

I nodded, breathless.

“Inside was the man himself, surrounded by Kevin White’s most distinguished supporters —even the Secretary of State, Dean Rusk! Kennedy welcomed Healy and I, pouring us a fine Scotch from a distillery in Inverness that has for half a century been importing to Boston through his father’s company.”

“You’re joking!” I mused. “Joe Kennedy Sr. imports Highland Scotch?”

“And Irish Whiskey, like his father before him.” Jamie continued. “The Kennedy empire was built on Scottish and Irish liquor!”

“Well you know quite a bit about that, having malted your own whiskey after all.”

“Aye.” Jamie stared into the ceiling ruefully. “But I didna ken Kennedy would be so sore about my knowledge.”

“Oh God, what happened?”

“Kennedy was regaling the men about the Scotch, describing the malting process —but he didna ken the proper steps to cleaning the pot still, no the way I remembered it. I politely explained the way a true Scotsman malts his whisky, and he was fair fashed about that. We…ah… exchanged harsh words.”

“And then fists, I’ll wager.”

“In all fairness, he struck me first—but I took him down wi’ one blow.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.”

“I didna mean to do it, but I ken how strongly men can be brought to foolish actions because of our emotions.”

“Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.” I quoted. “How can women’s emotions be the only ones to disqualify us from certain professions?”

“Men like Bennet canna see anyone gain ground w’out thinking he has lost some.”

We sat in silence, listening to the busy sounds of Cambridge Street rushing outside the hospital.

“You really punched Robert F. Kennedy?” I chuckled. “Well I suppose that’s the end of our glittering Boston social affairs.”

Jamie leaned toward me and brushed my curls away from my face. “I’m sorry not to see ye in yer lovely wee dresses, but those flashy affairs dinna interest me much.”

“Take me to Giovanni’s and I’ll wear whatever you want.”

Jamie’s deep throaty laugh echoed off the wall of my office.

“Ye want me to take ye now, _a nighean_?” Jamie stroked my back. “Ye must be starved.”

“Tomorrow, maybe.” I inhaled deeply. “Tonight there’s a brave young woman downstairs who needs someone sitting in her corner.”

Jamie kissed my forehead. "She has the bravest woman I ken."


	20. Revere's Burgers, Boston's West End, July 26, 1967

“Listen up, genius.” Brianna tied the apron around Ian’s waist and fixed the colonial tricornered hat onto his head. “I just got this job and I can’t have you screwing it up for me.”

“Yer a bar maid at this… tavern?” Ian looked around the locker area in the back of the restaurant kitchen.

“I’m a _cashier_ at this _burger joint_.” Brianna reached up and tied the stock around her neck, finishing the eighteenth century inspired costume that made up her work uniform. “And I’m the line cook and the closer tonight too —it’s a Wednesday, so it will be dead in here all night. All we have to do is keep this place open until midnight, take a few orders from some stoners and try not to burn the place down before we close.”

Ian winced, visualizing his uncle’s print shop in Edinburgh as it went up in smoke.

“I ain’t so sure about this guy, Brianna.” The rumpled-looking manager stepped out of his messy office and eyed Ian with a look of suspicion. “Ya said he’s 18?”

“Yes.” Brianna gave Ian a fierce look. “I promise, Stewie, he won’t cause any trouble. Clarence is a hard worker, aren’t you Clarence?”

Ian nodded, his tricorn hat bobbing up and down.

“We’ll I’m outta here, then.” Stewie shrugged and locked up his office, dropping the keys in Brianna’s hands. “Make sure Revere’s Burgers is still standing when I get back tomorrow.”

Brianna grunted and tucked the keys into the pockets of her costume breeches, motioning for Ian to follow her into the kitchen.

“Cousin?” Ian was rolling up the sleeves of his thick shirt to match the way Brianna wore hers. “Why are we to wear clothes... clothes from my time at this _burger_ _joint_?”

“This is a themed restaurant. Revere’s Burgers: Open ‘Till Midnight. Get it?” Ian cocked his head to one side. Brianna wasn’t sure how to explain the nuances of twentieth century capitalism. “You know, Paul Revere’s midnight ride? It’s supposed to be a gimmick.”

Ian stared at her like she had just turned into a fish. Struck with realization, she remembered Paul Revere wouldn’t ride for another twelve years after her cousin had passed through the stones.

“It’s a piece of Boston history from 1775 —kind of important to all of American history, actually.” Brianna grabbed Ian’s shoulders and steered him to the counter where they looked out over the dining area of the restaurant. Light fixtures made to look like old fashioned lanterns hung from the ceiling, the tables and chairs looked like thick, hand-hewn furniture and part of the wall had been painted in the likeness of Boston Harbor with the steeple of the Old North Church on one side.

“See?” Brianna gestured. “They decorated the restaurant to look like it’s from 1775 and make all the employees wear these colonial outfits. It’s just pretend.”

“Is everyone meant to pretend it’s 1775?” Ian quirked his brow.

“No.” She laughed. “This whole getup is just supposed to sell burgers, I guess!”

Pausing, Brianna looked at Ian in the costume and wondered if he would have worn something similar for most of his life up until this point.

“Is this what your real clothes looked like?” She asked, suddenly feeling shy. “You know… before?”

“These clothes?” Ian smiled. “Weel, I wore pants this length and a shirt wi’ a stock —but the fabric wasna so thin and scratchy!”

“Ugh, yeah these uniforms are cheap polyester.” Brianna scratched an especially itchy seam down the side of her cheaply made shirt.

A bell rang as a customer opened the door and ambled into the restaurant right up to the order counter. Ian stood limply behind the counter, unsure of what to do. Brianna took her place behind the cash register and smiled politely.

“Hi. What’ll it be?”

The elderly gentleman adjusted his glasses and looked above Brianna’s head at the board made to look like a large, yellowed scroll where the menu was written in big, curling script reminiscent of John Hancock's signature.

“I will have a #2 If By Sea, please.”

“Do you want tartar sauce or ketchup?”

“Both, if you please.”

“That will be 25 cents, please!”

Brianna opened the cash drawer and the elderly man counted out two dimes and a nickel with shaking fingers and placed them on the counter. The man took a seat at one of the tables and Brianna lead Ian back to the kitchen.

“Will we make a burger now, Brianna?” Ian blurted with enthusiasm.

“Actually, that guy ordered the fish and chips.” She replied in a clipped tone. “Here, I’ll show you how to work the deep fryer.”

Opening the cold food storage, Brianna grabbed three large breaded fish filets with tongs and placed them in a square metal basket with a long handle. Pulling a bag out of the freezer, she dumped an eye-measured helping of frozen french fries into a second metal basket.

“Now watch carefully,” She brought the baskets over to a thick, deep metal basin filled with a dark liquid. “This is oil, do you see it?” Brianna raised her eyebrows gravely and Ian nodded. “This is hotter than hell and will cook the living flesh right off your goddam bones.”

“I will be verra careful!” Ian said as Brianna gently lowered the baskets into the melted fat fryer.

A delicious smell rose up as the contents of the baskets sizzled and crackled cheerily. Within minutes, the fried food floated to the surface of the baskets and Brianna carefully lifted them back out of the fryer, dumping the fish and chips onto an absorbent paper surface and using a tool to scoop the meal onto a tray lined with a waxed-paper knock off of the Declaration of Independence. Brianna squirted bottled ketchup and tartar sauce into two small cups and tucked them next to the fried fish.

“Go and serve this to the customer.” Brianna smiled benevolently, ready to give Ian a chance to prove himself.

“I am to put this before him, aye?” Ian blinked.

“Yup. Preferably before it gets cold.”

Ian carried the tray around the counter and into the dining area. Placing the tray down in front of the elderly man, he bowed with a flourish.

“Yer dinner is served, my good sir!” He declared loudly, bowing again. Brianna rolled her eyes, wondering if Ian’s precociousness would forever plague her efforts to make him more normal.

The aged gentleman tipped back his head and laughed.

“If ye require anything else, sir.” Ian placed one hand behind his back chivalrously. “I shall be more than happy to attend to it.”

“Thank you, young man.” The elderly customer grinned, still chuckling, and tucked in to his fish and chips.

Triumphant, Ian returned to the kitchen, beaming with pride.

“Nice work, weirdo.” Brianna leaned against the stainless-steel prep table, folding her arms. “Next time pull back on the whole eighteenth century thing.”

“Cousin.” Ian shook his head, smiling. “Have ye nay sold more than burgers? Ye need to put more feeling into it, selling things is an art! I’m actually quite the salesman—or so Fergus says!”

“Well I guess one thing you’re certainly an expert on is the 1700s,” Brianna snorted. “So if you want to keep that act up all night, I’m more than happy to let you deal with all the unsavory customers we’ll be getting once it hits 9:00.”

“Actually.” Ian folded his hands timidly. “Would ye teach me how to make a wee _burger_?” He leaned forward, whispering. “Or an ice cream!”

“Hmm…” A mischievous smile came over Brianna. “I guess we’d ought to be allowed to make things —for training purposes, of course.”

Ian brightened as she began pulling out supplies. Fries went into the deep, boiling fat. Four potato wheat buns sat perched on the grill with two burger patties and two slices of bacon; Ian wielded the spatula as Brianna chopped a tomato.

“Now if the juices are really running out, go ahead and flip the patty.” Brianna instructed.

“It smells absolutely wonderful!” Ian closed his eyes.

“Did you forget about the fries in the deep fryer?”

Ian let out a _Gáidhig_ curse and ran to the fryer, rearing back as a drop of infernally hot fat splashed onto his hand. His elbow jerked back, knocking a bucket of grease down against a gummy vent behind the stove where it burst into flames.

Squawking, Ian thoughtlessly threw the basket of hot, oily fries at the flames licking from the slats of the vent where they became a blazing heap, feeding the fire growing inside the vent.

Ian reeled back, envisioning the restaurant a heap of ashes like his uncle’s print shop, when Brianna leaped behind him with a fire extinguisher, spraying clouds of white flame retardant into the corner behind the stove. Calmly, she grabbed the spatula and scooped the burger buns and meat onto a tray.

“We’ll clean that up in a second, but right now I think you need this.” Brianna dressed the hamburger in lettuce, a tomato and condiments. She set it down next to where Ian steadied himself against the stainless steel prep counter.

“I dinna deserve it, Brianna.” Ian’s shoulders crumpled.

“It’s fine.” Brianna put a hand on his arm. “That vent is clearly a hazard anyway!”

“I canna do anything right here in this time.” He said quietly.

“That’s not true.” Her heart cracked open. “I’m sorry I’m so hard on you, Ian. You’re doing really well, truly.” Ignoring the health code, she pulled herself up on the counter so she could wrap an arm around the lad’s shoulder.

“Ye dinna like me overmuch—and that’s alright.” Ian straightened. “But I ken I’m a burden to ye, and I dinna want to be.”

“Actually, I do like you.” Brianna said softly. “I’m just not sure if I know who I am right now.”

“What do you mean?” Ian turned and looked at her, his face puzzled. “Ye dinna ken who ye are? You’re Brianna.”

“Yeah, but Brianna what?” She sighed. “Brianna Randall? I lost the man who raised me, he’s gone. Brianna Fraser? I am still figuring out my relationship with the man who gave me that name. —And maybe…” Her eyes flashed up at Ian.

“Maybe it’s a little hard for me to watch you have such an easy, effortless connection with him.”

“Uncle Jamie?” Ian’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sorry, that’s not really fair for you.”

“I ken my uncle loves ye, Brianna.” Ian warmed to her. “Or he wouldna come two hundred years to find ye. And for that alone I care for ye too.”

“Thanks, Ian.” She slipped off the counter onto her feet. “Now you’d better try that cheeseburger, it’s getting cold!”

Smiling shyly at one another, they sampled their work.

“Oh heaven,” Ian closed his eyes. “That is the best thing I have ever tasted!”

Feeling like a geisha of fried foods, Brianna wore a gratified smile and popped another batch of fries into the fryer.

“Personally, I prefer French fries.” She said. “Once I start eating them I can’t stop!”

Over the sizzle of the fries Brianna caught the faint sound of a ding from the front door. She slipped out of the kitchen.

“What can I get for…”

Brianna was met by a tall man in a thin jean jacket wearing a ski mask covering his face. He held a knife in one hand and a bag in the other.

“Empty the safe.” A raspy voice commanded, his eyes were filled with a murderous darkness that drained all the blood from Brianna’s face. Silently, she shrank back toward the kitchen.

“I don’t have the key.” Brianna’s throat felt dry, her voice as thin as paper.

“Liar!” The man hissed. “I’ve seen you lock up this place on Wednesdays. If you have a key to the door, you have a key to the safe.” The thief leaped over the counter with the ease of a hunting predator, brandishing the knife toward Brianna. “Now open the safe or I’ll cut your little neck!”

Brianna slowly walked backward, out of the corner of her eye she saw a form, tensed up like a bow. In a moment of decision she dove backward as the thief lunged at her, swinging his knife wildly.

A spray of boiling oil flew from the basket as clumps of burned fries, 375 degrees hot, pelted the thief in the face. The robber stumbled back, shrieking and clawing at his eyes and neck. With decisive speed and grace, Ian leaped upon the man, driving a small tomato-cutting blade into his ribs.

The thief dropped his own weapon and backward rolled over the counter. The tomato knife hadn’t hit a vital organ thanks to the man’s denim jacket, but it had slashed the would-be robber’s side deeply. Dark, thick blood spilled out of his body as he stumbled across the restaurant floor, fleeing Ian’s nimble advances.

Ian chased the man out of Revere’s Burgers and onto the street, but he quickly returned to his cousin once the man had vanished into a nearby alley. He slipped back through the dinging doors, panting and radiating with adrenaline.

“Whoohooo!” Brianna howled with relief, still shaking. “What the hell, Ian! I had no idea you could do that!”

“I told ye I wouldna make a good Quaker, cousin!” Ian wiped the blade onto his costume breeks, which looked even more authentic for sporting the rumple and spatter of conflict.

“Jeez!” Brianna hurried to the doors of the restaurant, locking them quickly, and then slowly moved toward where Ian stood. His hardened expression and set jaw had erased any of the childishness she once saw.

“We could have died.” She swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Dinna fash yerself, Brianna.” Ian gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “When I worked wi’ yer father in Edinburgh, I got in many a stramash w’ other smugglers or the local authorities.”

“Wait what?” Brianna’s eyes narrowed. “My father was a smuggler?”

“Ah…forget about wha’ I said.” Ian straightened uncomfortably. “I didna mean…”

Brianna pushed her hat back and stood up on her toes, giving Ian a light peck on the cheek. As his face bloomed with surprise and gratification, she turned around quickly, hustling to the cash register and taking the drawer and receipts back toward the office.

“Thanks for making sure I didn’t get fired for losing all the restaurants cash.” She shouted as she walked back through the kitchen.

“Yer…” Ian gulped, touching his cheek. ‘Yer welcome!”

“I guess we should call the police.” Brianna yelled from the back office. She locked the door to the office and came out to the ordering counter where Ian sat, letting his heightened energy settle. “I feel like I need a minute before we get a bunch of cops down here.” She breathed, putting her hands on the counter.

“Do you want some ice cream?” She looked up at Ian.

“Do I?” A smile spread across his face.

“Anything you want.” Brianna’s face was dead serious. “A triple-decker-banana-fudge whatever. I will make you anything.”

“I’ll take the biggest…_whatever_ of ice cream that they serve here.” He grinned. “Two actually, one fer ye as well.”

“You’re gonna lose your mind when you try soft serve.” Brianna dipped back into the kitchen and pulled out two giant parfait glasses.

“I think I ha' already lost it.” Ian muttered to himself, heart squeezing as he watched his cousin bustle about the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuh... who wants to open up this Paul Revere themed burger shack with me?? 
> 
> The "#1. If by Land" is obviously the hamburger!


	21. Boston Globe Office, July 29 1967

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone after days with Claire away at the hospital, Jamie fends off the unwanted advances of a secretary. 
> 
> But Gina Dunstan has another card to play.

Jamie tried to rub the sleepy haze out of his eyes as he stared at the typewriter, the notes for his latest column blurring in his vision with the exhaustion of his late night visits with Claire at the hospital.

She had spent the last three days in vigil over her patient and hadn’t left Boston General to sleep or shower. Jamie had brought over clean clothes to wear under her scrubs and extra blankets to make her moments of respite on the couch in her office more comfortable. He had urged her to come home, but knew it would be easier to bend the will of a Fraser or a Mackenzie before he could convince a Beauchamp to leave a patient in critical condition.

Under the cover of blankets on the couch in her office she had confided in him: she was unsure whether the woman could recover neurologically and already Dr. Bennet had rallied the hospital’s most aggressive dissenters against her. She worried the chief of surgery would be sympathetic to Bennet’s vicious attitude toward her: she remarked that they often golfed together.

Jamie stayed with Claire late into the night, soothing her fears and brushing away her tears of self doubt. In the safety of their little cocoon in her office he offered what strength he had to give her the courage she needed to step back onto the ICU floor with her head high, ignoring the whispers and dirty looks.

He was glad to be a source of comfort to his Sorcha, but the late nights were eating into his ability to focus on the Boston mayoral race and his column.

Shaking his head and blinking rapidly, Jamie typed out the notes he had written onto his yellow legal pad. Noticing a small error, he growled and ripped the paper out of the carriage wadding it up and throwing it against the wall. Fitting another sheet of paper into the typewriter, he started over.

“Need a little help, Mr. Fraser?” A smooth, silky voice drifted from the open doorway of Jamie’s office. He looked up from his typewriter and plucked his spectacles off his face.

“Good Morning, Miss Dunstan.” Jamie nodded to the secretary, dropping his gaze back to his notepad, flipping the page back to the beginning of his draft.

“If you like, I can copy that for you—it’s no trouble.” She purred, moving toward his desk and shutting the door behind her.

“Thank ye, miss,” Jamie shook his head. “But I’d like to rework part o’ this draft. I dinna need help.” He intentionally placed his spectacles back on to narrow his field of vision to the legal pad where he couldn’t be tempted by her sumptuous curves on display in a skin-tight green dress.

“Why don’t I type, and you dictate.” She glided toward his desk, hips swaying mesmerizingly. “You know I can’t resist that accent of yours.”

“I’m afraid I canna oblige ye, Gina.” Jamie looked up at the raven-haired secretary, heat climbing up his neck. “I need to be alone to finish this, ye ken?”

“Oh come now, Jamie,” Gina Dustnan delicately hopped onto his desk and scooted her juicy rump toward him. “You’re always alone back here —don’t you get a little bit lonely?” Jamie sat back in his chair and took the spectacles off.

“Yer a bonny lass, Gina.” He sighed. “But I’ve a wife, and a daughter no much younger than ye.”

“Why not live a little, Fraser?” Gina bit her red lip temptingly, eyes glittering hungrily at the tall, broad Scot. She eyed the way his muscular shoulders filled his grey suit and the collar of his shirt framed his thick, strapping neck. He could feel her eyes undressing him and his lap twitched with mindless betrayal.

“Please go, lass.”

“See that’s what is so difficult about you, Jamie.” The secretary swiveled her body over so she was cross legged, leaning with her arms on the desk so her décolletage and breasts were served toward him appetizingly. “You tell me to go, but your little Scottish endearments are so inviting!”

“I dinna want to risk yer job, Gina.” Jamie said firmly. “Get out o’ my office and we wilna speak of it again. Go now.”

“Ever the gentleman, aren’t you Fraser?” Gina sneered. “I knew you’d be a goody two-shoes, so I came prepared.”

Jamie’s heart was pounding in his chest.

“You’re not married to Dr. Randall, are you?” Her slender eyebrow raised.

“In fact I am.”

“It’s my job to go down to the county clerk and get the records, Jamie.” Gina’s eyes sparkled triumphantly, like a cat having cornered an especially tasty mouse. “I even sent for information about you from Scotland under my clearance for the Globe, and you know what I found?”

Jamie swallowed, his tongue feeling like a roll of cotton.

“Absolutely nothing.” She smiled devilishly. “There’s no record of you whatsoever. You’re a ghost, James Fraser.”

“The highlands are’na up to date wi’ records, Gina.” Jamie’s mind raced. “Ye canna expect all the provinces of Scotland to be on card catalogs already.”

“Dr. Randall’s husband only just passed away last year, Jamie.” Gina leaned in for the kill. “Any record of your marriage in the last year would have been in the current system in Scotland or Massachusetts.” A gleeful grin spread over her face. “You’re playing house, aren’t you Mr. Fraser?”

“There was a mistake, lass.” Jamie growled. “It doesna concern ye.”

“Oh I’d rather not ruin you, Jamie. I just want in on the fun.” Gina swiveled around, shoving the typewriter and stacks of papers aside so she was sitting on the desk in front of Jamie, her curvy legs hanging off the edge and rubbing on either side of his knees.

“Have me, James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser!” She whispered huskily, taking his head in her hands.

Jaw set, Jamie stood and easily picked up the secretary by her waist. Her legs wrapped around him and she clutched his brawny shoulders, kissing his neck.

He walked with her around the desk and with one hand flung the door open. With the secretary still wrapped around his body, Jamie burst out into the open editorial floor. Papers, typewriters, and phones froze as the whole office stood still, every eye on Jamie as he unceremoniously dropped the secretary. With a squawk, Gina Dunstan spilled onto the floor.

“I am marrit before God and I love my wife.” Jamie announced to the stunned office, wiping the lipstick off his neck with his handkerchief. “I’d like to get my work done here w’out ye wicked wee besoms coming after me, do ye all ken?”

With a pause, the office resumed its bustle and a disheveled Gina crawled on her hands and knees, slinking off to the ladies’ room.

Jamie stormed to Bob Healy’s office, whipped up into a rage that emboldened him to settle another matter.

“Bob, I need to speak wi’ ye.” He strode in and sat himself in front of Healy’s desk. The political editor was holding the receiver of his phone and he nodded at Jamie, quickly dismissing himself from his caller and dropping the phone back into its cradle.

“What do you need, Fraser?”

“Ye haven’a said a word about what happened wi’ Kennedy.”

“What happened?” Healy looked confused.

“When I knocked his lights out, man!” Jamie gasped, slamming his fist down on the desk in exasperation. “I canna take the waiting, am I fired or no?”

“Fraser,” Healy chuckled. “You know I thought Kennedy was being a pompous ass, did you actually think you were in trouble?”

“I…didna ken…” Jamie blinked.

“Look, I know you’re an old-school type of guy.” Healy smiled sympathetically. “So is Kennedy.”

“It seemed this time…” Jamie caught himself. “…This place is much less forgiving of fists than where I come from. I thought Kennedy would have me arrested.”

Bob leaned his head back and howled with laughter.

“Fraser there is no way in hell that Kennedy would admit to being bested by you —much less get the police involved. He wouldn’t risk that kind of press.” Healy got up and walked around his desk, pouring a honey-colored whiskey for himself and Jamie. “It was a stupid tiff about booze, not a big deal at all.”

Jamie sipped his whiskey in bewilderment as Healy choked back laughter. “That was one hell of a punch!” He eyed Jamie with admiration. “You know, the next time you see Kennedy he will absolutely respect you, but for fuck’s sake do not mention it.”

“No a word.” Jamie drained his whiskey glass, feeling relieved.

“You sure know how to set boundaries, Fraser.” Healy’s eyebrows shot up, his head nodding toward the main editorial office outside his door. “I heard that, a minute ago. Do you want me to let Gina go?”

“No.” Jamie shook his head. “I wilna be the reason a lass loses her job.”

“Seems like she provided reason enough.”

“Dinna fash yerself, Bob.” Jamie shrugged. “I’ll do.”

“Alright, but I’m sure you’ve noticed fooling around is something of a company policy. And you’re… well…” He gestured toward Jamie’s appealing physique.

“I canna forsake the promise to my wife.”

“Well you’re a better Catholic than me, Fraser.” Healy grunted, decanting another serving of whiskey for both of them. “Things between me and Jan are…rocky.”

“She strikes me as a good woman.” Jamie murmured

“Yeah she’s got a good heart.” He sighed. “We haven’t spoken in almost a week; we get in bed and she’s as cold as ice—won’t say a word to me! Just rolls over in a huff!”

Jamie nodded, listening empathetically.

“She told me she’s thinking about a divorce.”

Jamie drew in a breath, aware that such an idea was less vile in this time than it was in his, yet still unable to shake his own eighteenth century feelings about it.

“I know.” Healy slumped defeatedly. “I don’t want to do that to her. But it’s not like I’d be leaving her out in the cold—her family is well off, she has a sizable trust fund and we don't have kids.”

“So ye think ye might go through wi’ it?” Jamie asked gently.

“It’s tough to see a couple like you and your missus, Fraser.” Healy looked at Jamie, his eyes touched with emotion. “It was obvious that night a Fanueil Hall: you’re like two kids on your honeymoon. Jan and I just don’t have that anymore.”

“I’m verra sorry, Bob.”

“Ugh, it’s not your fault.” Healy knocked his whiskey back. “It just makes me realize things should be better. Or maybe love is just a jumble of hormones that work for some people and not for others.”

A kind laugh rumbled in Jamie’s chest. “It isna so complicated, Healy. But it is difficult. Love is when you give your heart and soul to another. And they give theirs in return.”

“And what if you stop giving?” Healy’s gaze seared into Jamie. “What if they won’t give it back?”

“’Tis my greatest fear.” Jamie admitted. “But ye canna possess another soul wi’out losing yer own. It is a risk.”

Bob grunted and stared out the window, taking in the baking midsummer glow as it bleached Boston’s skyline with its blistering heat.

“Well, I think we’ve both had enough woman problems for one day.” Healy smiled weakly at Jamie.

“Mr. Healy, is Mr. Fraser with you?” The fuzzy intercom buzzed at Healy’s desk.

“Yes, Nancy,” Healy leaned on the talk button. “Should I send him out?”

“Mr. Fraser has a call from Boston General Hospital.” Nancy replied. Jamie stood quickly and shook hands with his boss.

“That will be Claire.” He said, eyes bright.

“You gonna tell her about…ya know… Gina?” Healy grimaced.

“My wife and I can have secrets, but no lies.” Jamie said. “I wilna keep it from her.”

“You’re a better man than me, Fraser.” He laughed.

“I dinna think that.” Jamie shrugged. “But I belong to her.”

Jamie strode to his office and picked up the receiver.

“Hullo, Claire?”

“Jamie!” Claire’s voice was sparkling with excitement. “Mary is awake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for hanging with me thus far! We've got some exciting arcs to build but I also wanted to see if there were any prompts for scenes you'd like? 
> 
> Bob Healy and Janet Rush did divorce but I am not sure exactly when it took place. In 1978 Healy married again and had six children with his second wife, on top of the five stepchildren his wife, Mary Duvanent, brought to the marriage.
> 
> http://archive.boston.com/bostonglobe/obituaries/articles/2010/06/07/robert_l_healy_at_84_globe_editor_columnist_political_insider/?page=2


	22. Manhattan, New York City, July 29, 1967

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brianna lets Ian join her on a trip to NYC with her friends for a Summer of Love concert in Central Park.  
The overwhelming setting offers Ian a glimpse into his own feelings -but not before they're challenged by a surprise visitor.

“But we didna say goodbye to Uncle Jamie!” Ian’s brow was furrowed as he and Brianna climbed into the back seat of a sky blue Ford Mustang. In the front, Brianna’s friend David and his girlfriend Tess were making out, ignoring their new passengers that climbed into the car.

Brianna shushed Ian and scooted next to him in the middle of the back row’s cramped bench. “That’s why we had David pick us up at 6:00 in the morning!” Her mouth tickled his ear, making his insides feel very warm. “He’s out on his morning run!”

“Uncle Jamie doesna ken we are going to New York?”

“Really? Can you imagine your uncle being down to hang at the biggest East Coast party of the summer?”

Ian shrugged, visualizing a memory of his charismatic uncle working the crowd at an especially wild Hogamany in the tavern at Edinburgh. He thought it best not challenge Brianna’s image of her father.

“You two good, back there?” David looked back at Brianna and Ian, wiping the saliva off his lips as Tess sank smugly back into her seat. “Alright, let’s burn rubber!” The mustang pulled away and sped down Furey Street, whizzing past a lone, red-headed jogger that the two back passengers ducked down to avoid.

“We’re going to New York’s Haight-Ashbury!” David whooped “Greenwich Village!”

Ian looked at Brianna, confused.

“Haight and Ashbury Street is where all the cool counter-culture musicians live in San Francisco—like Jefferson Airplaine, Janice Joplin, the Grateful Dead…everybody!” She explained. “I heard all the old victorian houses are painted bright colors, everyone’s partying all the time—it’s like a hippie utopia!”

“Are we hippies, then, Brianna?” Ian leaned in, whispering. “Are we _cool_?”

“Mouth closed.” She hissed, holding up two fingers. “Only peace, dig it?”

Ian’s cousin had micromanaged every aspect of the preparations for this trip. He had mutely complied, allowing Brianna to select an outfit for him: a loose Edwardian-looking ruffled linen blouse of Claire’s tucked halfway into his thick bootcut jeans, a vest and a long necklace strung with chunky, irregularly shaped wooden beads. Ian wasn’t sure where Brianna had gotten him the strangely-shaped article on his head Brianna called a _cowboy hat, _but he felt more assured it was the proper costume when he got into the Mustang and saw David wearing an identical one.

Brianna wore a long, loose caftan dress with a swirling pink and green psychedelic pattern. The colors complimented her fiery red hair which hung long and loose from a green silk bandana tied around her head. She looked like a colorful angel, or some kind of woodland faerie, Ian thought. He tried to control the heat creeping down his back as she scooted closer to him when they picked up another passenger. Ian’s cheeks burned hot as he observed through the gauzy dress that she wore no brassier.

The young brown-haired girl sitting next to Brianna was wearing a peasant blouse tucked into a mini skirt. She pulled a newspaper out of her flower-printed flour-sack bag and showed it to Brianna.

“Far out!” Brianna exclaimed, “I’m so jazzed to read that neato article you mentioned about Jerry Garcia!” She unfolded the newspaper and looking at an article featuring a large picture of musicians with long pipes, sitting in a circle on cushions_._

Ian wrinkled his nose. Around these _cool_ hippies, Brianna was using a lot of phrases and expressions she didn’t normally employ. He wasn’t sure he could keep up and he missed the way Brianna acted when they were alone.

“Is that Uncle Jamie’s newspaper, Brianna?” Ian looked over Brianna’s shoulder at the open newspaper.

“No, it’s the _San Francisco Oracle_, it’s a paper especially for the psychedelic beat!” Brianna said, “None of that capitalist bullshit!”

“What are they doing in that _photograph_?” Ian asked quietly. The musicians in the picture were wreathed in smoke and wore sleepy, dopey expressions.

“Ah, ha ha.” Brianna bristled, eyes wheeling toward the brunette sitting next to her. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin, Brigit, he’s from the Scottish highlands and this is his first time in the States.”

“Hey, it’s cool, man.” Brigit reached over and putting her hand on Ian’s knee. “Every journey begins with just one step.” The brown-haired hippie patted him with a smile as if she had delivered a deeply profound bit of wisdom. Ian was unsure how to respond.

Ian tried to make himself inconspicuous as Brigit, Tess and Brianna chatted excitedly about bands, counter-culture celebrities and national protests in the news. All kinds of lingo was flying around that Ian was having trouble deciphering. He reckoned “outta sight” and “laid back” meant something good, a “flake” or a “hawk” was a bad person, and everyone was hoping they wouldn’t be bothered by “pigs” at the rally. He wondered why people in New York had difficulty with their livestock.

Four and a half hours later the blue mustang took the 278 south through the Bronx and East Harlem, crossing over the Harlem River and following FDR Drive toward the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan. The chatter in the car had long died down in Ian’s cognizant hearing as he pressed his nose to the window, astonished by the endless skyline of buildings along the East River and the array of enormous buildings glittering in the sunlight —bigger than anything he’d ever seen.

Then it was if they were in a deep valley, surrounded as they were by tall buildings. They crossed Manhattan south of midtown through a dazzling array of shops and storefronts and pulled into a parking garage in Greenwich Village near a row of apartment buildings on 11th street. Brianna tossed Ian his bag as they unloaded and piled out onto the busy sidewalk.

“This way.” David lead them down the tree-lined block. “Raven and Vishnu live on Perry Street.”

Before Ian could ask if those were names for people, the group was walking down West 4th street toward a beautiful row of brick brownstones. They came to a quaint apartment building with white painted brick and contrasting iron-wrought fire escapes and a crackle voice on the intercom buzzed them in.

After climbing several flights of stairs with thick, musty carpets, a door opened and the group was greeted by a robed, flower-bedecked couple in headbands and wooden beads like Ian’s. David, Tess, Bridget and Brianna were crooning and hugging the two and Ian suddenly felt extremely shy.

“Vishnu, this is my cousin, Ian Murray from Scotland.” Brianna grabbed Ian’s wrist and dragged him toward the slight, tall young man in a robe, who was decidedly of European descent. Vishnu placed his hands together and bowed politely.

“He took a vow of silence until Westmorland calls another cease fire in Vietnam.” Said the young woman with big brown eyes and long dark hair. “I’m Raven, by the way.”

“Is he a monk?” Ian asked quizzically. Before Brianna’s hackles could rise, Raven’s sparkling laugh broke the tension.

“Of course.” Raven smiled beatifically. “We are priest and priestesses of love and peace in New York City.”

“I’ll bet Curtis doesn’t fuck like a monk.” Ian heard Tess whisper to Brigit, who snorted.

“Don’t call him that, it’s Vishnu now.” Brigit replied sanctimoniously.

The troop filed into the apartment and set their bags down on the hardwood floor along the brick wall where the gorgeous floor to ceiling picture windows illuminated an open sitting area filled with large silk cushions and wool rugs from India and Morocco. On the wall was an enormous, hideous painting done with thick, gummy paint in an abstract series of heavy splotches.

“Oh my.” Ian looked up at the artwork, completely baffled.

“Do you like it?” Raven smiled nostalgically. “Vishnu and I made it with our bodies while we made love. It’s the narrative of our passion written in impasto! Isn’t it poetic?”

Twin flames of embarrassment ignited in Ian’s cheeks and his mouth dropped open.

“Looks nice, Raven.” Brianna chimed in, covering for Ian. “That’s the prettiest yeast infection I’ve ever seen.”

“Whatever, Randall!” Raven playfully stuck her tongue out at Brianna.

Having stashed their things for weekend lodging at Raven and Vishnu’s, the whole party walked to 8th street toward the light rail station for the IND 6th Avenue Line.

“Brianna!” Ian hung back from the group, shrinking from the staircase leading down from the street to the subway station below ground. “I ken ye said this was a wee train cave but I need another moment in the fresh air!” He gulped, steadying himself. Throngs of pushy New Yorkers were streaming up the steps, bumping into Ian with disdainful looks as they flooded out of the latest subway car.

“I’m sorry Ian, you have to come now.” Brianna tugged on his wrist. “The next train will be here in a minute and I don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

“This world moves far too fast for me!” Ian squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’s ok, Ian.” Brianna moved close to him, hitching her arm through his. “I’m right here with you.”

This close contact seemed to breathe life into Ian’s cheeks. He matched her steps down the stairwell onto the platform of the subway. Brianna braced herself mentally: there was no preparing Ian for what was about to rocket through that tunnel since he had no reference point for even the most primitive form of trains.

“Just hang on to me, ok?” Brianna whispered into his ear, leading Ian in front of a pillar a few feet from where her friends stood on the platform.

The tunnel moaned and hissed with the seething creature deep within its bowels. Ian tensed up like a warrior in the moments before battle, every sinew in his body tightly strung.

“The train is going to come really fast through that tunnel in just a minute, ok?” Brianna said soothingly, rubbing her cousin’s arm with her free hand. “It’s fine, it won’t hurt us.” She looked at her friends, who were chatting gregariously and mercifully hadn’t noticed her cousin’s small meltdown.

“When will it come, Brianna?” Beads of sweat were forming on Ian’s temple. The anticipation was certainly worse than the delivery; the whole darkened chamber echoed with dread as Ian flattened his back against the pillar.

“Any second now.” She murmured. “Once you see this it will be no big deal, right? It’s just like a very fast group of carriages attached to each other.”

With a dreadful, rattling howl that grew in fervent misery, the subway signaled its impending arrival. The moment the shiny metal-plated car burst from the tunnel, Brianna threw her body in front of Ian’s, pinning him to the pillar and putting herself between him and the train. As she pressed against him and his hands slipped around her shoulders, she realized that both seeing the noisy train with new eyes and imagining Ian’s fear had made her overreact. But she didn’t let go.

The train lurched to a stop and the doors to the railcar clattered open. Ian’s grip eased on Brianna’s back and his hands dropped away slowly.

“I didna ken you would be scairt, Brianna.” Ian said softly in her ear. With a gentle hand he brushed her hair from her face.

“Sorry.” Brianna flushed with confusion. “I guess I just got wrapped up in how freaky it would be to see that for the first time.”

Quickly the scuttled to the back of their group as they boarded the train.

“You haven’t ridden a subway before?” David said to Ian. “Just grab onto the rails, man.”

Ian clung to a vertical bar, copying the subway passengers filling the car. Tess grabbed the hand rail next to Brianna, her back facing the rest of the group.

“_Les Cousins Dangereux_?” She smirked at her redheaded friend.

“I’m just trying to help him.” Brianna growled through gritted teeth. “He comes from a place where…he’s just not used to all of this!”

“I’m just playing, Bree.” Tess giggled. “Although you should watch out, it’s clear he’s got puppy dog eyes for you.”

“It’s not like that!” Brianna hissed. “He’s just a kid!”

The metro lurched forward and Brianna’s eyes tore away from Tess to see how Ian had handled the initial jolt. He was turned away from Brianna but his arms were laced around the rail like a monkey and it seemed like the movement wasn’t causing him any major problems. However, several passengers next to Ian were glowering at him.

“Quit bogarting the rail, asshole.” A man in a suit snarled at Ian.

“Mind your own fucking business, you prick!” Brianna barked at the man.

“Wow, Bree.” Raven’s laugh sparkled. “You make a wonderful New Yorker!”

The subway stopped four times before they reached the 57th street stop at Central Park. David peeled Ian off the hand rail and they filed out of the train and up the stairwell to 57th street.

“Look Ian, it’s Carnegie Hall!” Brianna pointed toward a brown square building with swooping arches over its windows. Ian felt like they were still in a deep gorge with the skyscrapers looming on all sides, and truth be told: all the buildings looked the same to him. But an open patch of blue with tufts of green at the end of 7th avenue was more promising.

“There’s Central Park!” Tess yelled excitedly. The group floated down seventh avenue toward the bright patch of trees and were met with a row of horses and carriages waiting to take tourists through the park. Ian’s eyes were shining as he looked at a more familiar mode of transportation, but he judiciously kept his mouth shut as the group passed through the park’s southern entrance and made their way through the park’s maze-like paths toward Wollman Rink.

It became clear they were headed the right direction as the paved pathway grew more flooded with similarly clad young people. Some had painted faces and silky, flowing garments, others wore stylish, urbane clothing but had daisies tucked in their hair and beards. All wore smiles and an electric, enthusiastic energy. The chatter among Brianna’s friends grew increasingly energized as they began to hear the clamor of a crowd responding to the tinny sounds of acoustic instruments blaring from large speakers.

The trees opened up, and a huge stage was built out in the middle of the open, grassy slope of Wollman Rink. Around the stage, a massive crowd of young people were spread out on blankets and sprawling in the grass. Approaching the fringes of the audience, Brianna turned toward a young man with big, fluffy hair and ostentatiously wide bell bottoms.

“Hey, who is playing right now?” She gestured toward the stage filled with band members still to far away to identify.

“Can’t you tell?” The man looked up, surprised. “It’s the _Incredible String Band_ from Scotland.”

In an instant, the familiar strains of _October Song_ were suddenly discernible in Brianna’s ears and she bolted toward the stage, taking off in a full run.

“Brianna!” Ian called, scrambling after her. “Brianna, wait!”

Ian followed the familiar spray of red, clawing through the mass of long hair and caftans, choking on the strange smells and tripping over a thoughtlessly-placed Japanese tea set and Morrocan bong. Down in the front of the throng at the base of the stage, the grass was trodden and muddy, the stench of unwashed bodies and smoke was thicker. Young people were dancing wildly, their hair swinging in a head-droopy, arms-wide sort of frolic. Ian’s eyes were fixed on Brianna, his heard thudding in his chest.

He knew that he loved her.

Not in a clear and defined way—but in the way that a heart can be inexplicably drawn toward a source of light and warmth. Now, running after Brianna, he felt his heart two steps ahead of him, longing to be near her.

Brianna stood still at the base of the stage, every muscle in her body rigid. Her face shined upward in a brilliant smile, her eyes danced with life, elation, and perhaps a touch of arousal. Ian slowed his run to a walk and moved toward her, captivated by her reverend, enraptured pose.

Following her gaze toward the stage he saw a familiar mop-headed figure with a guitar.The man was pounding on his instrument, his chest heaving, his clear, strong voice ringing out in breathtaking harmony.

_When hunger calls my footsteps home,_   
_The morning follows after,_   
_I swim the seas within my mind,_   
_And the pine-trees laugh green laughter._

_I used to search for happiness,_   
_And I used to follow pleasure,_   
_But I found a door behind my mind,_   
_And that's the greatest treasure._

Eyes lurching back to Brianna, Ian suddenly recognized the expression on her face and what it meant. His heart sank.

Brianna was in love with the man on the stage: Roger Mac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so the Schaefer Music Festival did begin the summer of 1967 in Wollman Rink, but it actually happened July 5th and it didn't have the Incredible String Band or the Mamas and the Papas, BUT that year did feature an extremely talented legend who you will see in the next chapter!! OMG!
> 
> Roger could have totally been a backup singer for the Incredible String Band, they're totally his style! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCnJdQ9izto
> 
> I also found a 1967 NYC subway schedule! How cool is that! https://www.nycsubway.org/perl/caption.pl?/img/maps/calcagno-1967-system.gif


	23. Shaefer Music Festival, Central Park, New York City, July 28 1967

A deafening roar thundered up from the crowd and Roger let his hands drop from his guitar as the final chord of the song rang out over the green. His eyes darted about the sea of faces looking for a flash of red hair but it his vision was lost in the haze of psychedelic colors, fabrics, and haze of smoke.

The main trio in the center of the stage broke away, turning away from the audience. Roger could see Robin Williamson and Mike Heron glowering and hissing at one another, when the band's main front runner, Clive Palmer, swung around with his banjo and said something Roger couldn't hear, diffusing the tension. A shrill chirp of feedback on the stage seemed to mirror the sharp glances between the guitar and fiddle player as they slinked away from one another.

Roger had noticed the antagonism building between Robin and Mike throughout the last few days he had spent preparing for this show with the Scotland's hottest folk group, the Incredible String Band. Robin and Mike had spent the fall touring alongside another band and without Clive's soothing presence the two had developed a deep resentment and been at each others throats ever since. Roger wondered if his old mate, Clive, had invited him to this show just to bring on a fresh body as a buffer between the squabbling bandmates, but truthfully he had been eager for an excuse to step onto a certain someone's shores. He scanned the crowd for her again but still couldn't see her.

"Thank ye, New York! Yer a lovely audience!" Clive tapped his wool cabby hat winsomely and stepped back from the big shiny condenser microphone as several grips brought a pair of stools up onto the stage. Robin and Mike, along with the rest of the supporting band drifted from the stage, slipping back into the wings as Roger turned away from the audience, tuning his guitar discreetly.

"Weel now," Clive settled onto a stool, gripping his banjo. "I'm pleased to welcome one of me auld mates, Roger Mackenzie Wakefield, who's come all the way from Oxford to play for ye!"

Roger nodded as the crowd clapped politely. He slid onto the second stool and smiled shyly at his friend, draping one arm over his guitar and subconsciously forming the first chord of the next song with his left hand out of nervous habit.

"Auld Rog and I met during my early days playing in Soho. Roger came o'er from Oxford for raucous weekends wi' his mates from uni, and me wi' no but me wee banjo and me broken heart!"

"More like a broken heid!" Roger quipped, leaning into the microphone and intentionally broadening his Scot's accent for the benefit of the audience.

Laughter rippled over the crowd as Clive pretended to scoff and brush aside Roger's tease. Roger felt the tension in his chest ease a little. As confident as he was musically, he had never played in front of such a large audience. The dizzying span of bobbing faces and eyes filled the green expanse of the lawn: it was enough to make him feel a little queasy.

"We played together on the odd weekend until this wee bastard decided to get a PhD in Scottish History and Folk Literature!" Clive shook his head. "The voice of an angel and he throws it away to be wi' dusty auld books!"

The crowd was oddly silent and from somewhere there was an odd squawk. Roger wondered if this audience might be unimpressed by his academic career sheerly for some dogmatic principle of cultural deconstruction, but he didn't really care. He was there to sing.

"Weel since ye yanks are all in a rebellious mood today, we're going to do a few traditional Scottish tunes for ye from the Jacobite rising in 1745!" Clive continued, "Professor, why don't ye tell us what this first one is about?"

Roger coughed and then leaned toward the microphone. "“This one is from the famous battle of Prestonpans, at which the Highland Army of Charles Stuart routed a much greater English force, under the command of General Jonathan Cope."

Clive and Roger made eye contact, their bodies beginning to move in sync as Roger counted out, "A'one, two, three, four..." Roger began strumming percussively, dampening the strings with the palm of his hand to create a militaristic, drumming rhythm while Clive's banjo plinked energetically, driving the momentum with suspense.

In his rich, velvety baritone, Roger sang the opening lines.

_“Cope sent a challenge from Dunbar_

_Sayin’ ‘Charlie, meet me, and ye daur_

_An’ I’ll learn ye the art o’ war_

_If ye’ll meet me in the mornin’”_

Clive joined in with his high, soaring tenor in the harmony for the jeering chorus.

_“Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye walkin’ yet?_

_And are your drums a-beatin’ yet?_

_If ye were walkin’, I would wait_

_Tae gang tae the coals in the mornin’!”_

Suddenly Roger's eye caught two brilliant blue eyes, shining like two fixed points of light framed in long auburn hair. His heart sped up, quicker than the rhythm of the guitar and he accidentally pushed the downbeat slightly too fast as his breath caught. 

She was here. 

He locked eyes with her and felt his heart surge again when a small smile played on the corner of her thick, pink lips. He drank her in as if she were the only one listening to him, searching her eyes from his perch in the center of the spotlight. What was she thinking?

_“When Charlie looked the letter upon,_

_He drew his sword the scabbard from,_

_Come, follow me, my merry men,_

_And we’ll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning!”_

A sudden look of pain flashed over her face for a moment and Roger's chest lurched again. She gripped her jaw and blinked to conceal the mist forming against her lower lashes but it was unmistakable. 

_Shit, what an idiot! _A moment of realization dawned over Roger: of course this would be a touchy subject for the woman who's heart he had pined over for so long. Her parents had been among Charles Stuart's 'merry men' who had clashed with Cope's soldiers on that day.

Roger felt his heart sink as he caught a note of betrayal in her eyes; when her mother had left through the stones he had been the safe haven where she had dropped her strong exterior and poured out her feelings to him. Now here he was, putting on display for five thousand people all the triggers of her fitful experience. This could not be going worse, Roger thought.

_“…For it will be a bluidie morning!”_

_“Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye walkin’ yet?_

_And are your drums a-beatin’ yet?…”_

As Roger and Clive belted out the chorus in tight harmony the audience clapped and cheered along, clearly unfazed by the bloody references to the battle. Either the non-violently inclined crowd wasn't picking up the gory details through their thick Scots' accents or they were less bothered by violence directed specifically at 'The Man.' Young students and wild hippies were dancing and leaping at the front of the stage, holding up lighters, peace signs, and waving arms as the driving rhythm echoed across the field. 

_“In faith, quo Johnnie, I got sic flegs,_

_Wi’ their claymores an’ philabegs,_

_Gin I face them again, de’il brak my legs,_

_So I wish you a’ good morning!_

_Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye walkin’ yet?…”_

Last year, when he had supported her through saying goodbye to her mother, Roger had placed his feelings on the back burner, careful not to insert himself into her confusing web of tangled relationships. He had called her as often as he dared: always listening and never pushing her to add him to the complex dynamic of living alone and then suddenly welcoming back her mother and 200-year-old father she had never met. 

Sympathetic Roger. Understanding Roger. Maybe she would never see him as more than that. After all, she was hesitant to share the things closest to her heart, and the things he was passionate about seemed to only cause her pain.

Fixing his gaze back at her face, Roger realized that the greatest chasm between them was not the timing, nor even the Atlantic Ocean, but the simple fact that some people tried to preserve the past and others tried to escape it. Why hadn't he seen it before?

With a flourish Roger and Clive ended the song just as they had rehearsed it, he was grateful that they had practiced thoroughly enough to execute the song while his mind wandered away with his heart. A small twinge of guilt curled in Roger’s stomach as Clive raises his hands, thanking the audience for their clamor of enthusiasm.

“One more?” Clive turned to Roger as if they hadn’t already planned the second song as their closer. “I dinna ken —what do ye think, Rog?”

“Aye let’s give ‘em one more!” He croaked into the microphone, feeling even more dread for their final and most heart-wrenching selection: a Jacobite song of love and loss. 

The crowd whooped with adulation and then hushed quickly to hear the delicate, slow plucking of Clive’s banjo.

In a clear, sorrowful voice he began the swan’s song of a Scottish rebel soldier giving one last farewell to his land and lover before meeting his fate at the hands of his British captors.

_By yon bonny banks and by yon bonny braes _

_Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond_

_Where me and my true love were ever wont t’ gae_

_On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond._

Roger sneaked a glance down at the red haired lass. Her face was blank like a drawn screen, and for a moment he thought she might not know the song’s sad story. Maybe he was in the clear.

_We’ll meet where we parted in yon shady glen,_

_On the steep, steep side o’ Ben Lomond,_

_Where purple in hue the Heiland hills we view,_

_And the moon looks out frae the gloamin_’

Seeing her there reminded him of standing with her and the Reverend on the purple-tinted grassy slope of Craig na Dun, watching her mother slip out of the present and into a distant past toward love. Had it been so when her father had sent her mother back before Culloden? Did they say their farewells in that shady glen, on the steep, steep side of a Highland hill?

Clearly these thoughts were echoing in her mind too: her facade began to crumble. Her lip quivered and the tears she had been restraining slid silently down her flushed cheeks.

_Weel the wild birdies sing and the wild flowers spring_

_An’ in sunshine the waters are sleepin’_

_But the broken heart, it kens nae second spring_

_Tho’ the waefu’ may cease frae their greetin’._

_Oh God, now you’ve done it._ Roger thought, his insides twisting with discomfort. He longed to leap off the stage and comfort her, but with wretched feeling of helplessness he met Clive’s heart-piercing melody with a sweet, melancholy harmony that only made the song more haunting. Her heart was clearly broken —would they get a second spring? Were they over before they had even begun?

_Oh you’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road_

_And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,_

_But me and my true love shall never meet again_

_By the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond._

Their twining voices resonated in an electric peak, and as the instruments fell silent the crowd was hushed reverently, still spellbound. Panting with exertion, Roger looked down at her making direct eye contact. He broke all stage character and bore into her with his gaze.

_Sorry._ He mouthed the word.

The crowd was roaring, whistling, clattering with praise, Roger didn’t hear them until he realized Clive was gripping his shoulder, shaking him.

“Roger! Ye wee wanker!” Clive was laughing at him. He had already thanked the audience. ”It’s time to piss off, aye?”

Blinking as if waking up, Roger staggered off the stool. He looked back at the spot where her face lingered no moments before but she was gone. With slumped shoulders, he followed Clive robotically off the stage and down the steps into a curtained area that served as something between a green room and a VIP area. He wanted nothing more than to dodge the cluster of enthusiastic musicians waiting at the bottom of the steps to congratulate him and Clive but was effectively trapped. 

“Oh my God, brilliant performance!” A young woman in a leather fringe skirt and jean jacket draped herself over Roger’s arm affectionately. “I just can’t get enough of ‘yer wee accents!” She tapped his nose and giggled. Her clever eyes sparkled promisingly but Roger was missing a different lass and couldn't be bothered. Slipping deftly from her grasp, he smiled politely and shook hands with another vaguely familiar musician, thankful that his many years greeting an endless stream of partitioners with the Reverend had instilled him with a warm, friendly autopilot.

"Hey that was something, man." A sturdy, strong jawed young man with flowing, voluminous auburn hair sauntered up to Roger. "I really dig your vibrations. Do you know MacPherson's Lament?"

"I do, yes." Roger nodded, trying to place the man's familiar face.

"I have Scottish ancestry too. I'm profoundly moved by Celtic paganism, the ritual connection with life, death: the blurring of time and space to hold these intricately linking circles. Fuck." The man shook his head, wavy locks splashing against his cheek. "We're all connected, you know?"

"You have no idea." Roger murmured.

"Seen a lot?" The musician looked curiously at Roger, eyes sparkling intelligently.

"More than I care to admit." He sighed.

"If you stare at the abyss long enough, eventually it stares back at you." The young man quoted.

"Nietzsche." Roger mused, trying to sound interested in the musician's ruminating while wanting nothing more than to bolt out onto the lawn.

"Well anyway, I like your sound. Talk to Pamela and she'll get you my info if you're ever in L.A. We could cut a track of MacPherson's Lament or, you know, shoot the shit." He shrugged. "It's Jim, by the way." Jim stuck out his hand and Roger took it, recognizing that on any other day he would be elated to be rubbing shoulders with the likes of this charismatic young man.

"Roger, Roger Mackenzie Wakefield." He smiled mechanically and excused himself. 

The moment Roger pushed aside the curtain separating the backstage area from the milling crowd of concert-goers a realization struck him.

_Holy God_. He thought. _I just blew off Jim Morrison from The Doors._

Setting aside his brusque encounter with a rock legend, Roger plunged into the crowd looking every which way for the one person who had occupied his thoughts all afternoon. With the stampede of a thousand tiny horses in his stomach, he caught sight of a green and pink silky gown and a curtain of red hair. Breathless, he moved through the throng of people toward her but suddenly stopped short. A tall lanky young man who's face was obscured by a cowboy hat had placed a protective hand on her shoulder. 

_I'm too late._ Roger's spirit sunk. _She's found someone else._ He kicked himself, stupid miserable idiot for playing those uncomfortable songs --of course she'd been repulsed by him from the beginning.

But before he could slink away in defeat, she turned and glimpsed him through the crowd. Her face dawned with a dazzling smile, thawing the hope that had frozen over only moments before. The warmth of her face sent heat from the center of him right down to the ends of his toes. She broke from the place she was standing and ran toward him.

"Brianna!" He shouted recklessly.

Arms open, he caught the momentum of her body moving toward him and without thinking, lifted her up and swung her in the air. Brianna squealed, laughing wildly, her arms flung around his shoulders. Panting, he set her down, suddenly feeling a little shy. Her eyes showed no trace of their previous tears but were eager and open to him; she didn't let go of his shoulders.

"It's really good to see you." She said quietly, beaming up at him. "You were really incredible up there."

His mouth felt dry, how could he explain that this moment here with her was the whole reason he had stood on that stage?

"Roger Mac!" Ian approached them with a friendly tone and a wave, although his face seemed less than pleased to see Roger holding his cousin by her hips.

"My God, is that you, Ian?" Roger was amazed by the stylish transformation of the formerly ill-prepared time traveler. "Your look has improved greatly from those terrible trousers of the Reverend's you mucked about it when we first picked you up, aye?" He slapped the lad on the back and Ian coughed, glowering at the emphasis on his less-than-smooth moments here in the twentieth century.

"Roger, we were just about to go find a bratwurst or something. We haven't eaten since this morning." Brianna said, placing her hand on her stomach as if to quiet a hungry gurgle.

"Food!" Roger said with a flash of recollection from minutes earlier when he had been chatting with the legendary Jim Morrison: behind the stage there had been long table with a decadent spread. "There's lunch served for the musicians in the green room --musicians and their..."

"...Girlfriends?" Brianna smiled flirtatiously.

Roger blushed, unsure whether she was serious or toying with him.

"Hell, I'd even be your wife for a french dip sandwich right now."

"Don't tease me like that." Roger said softly.

Brianna laughed, either ignoring or not picking up on his sincerity.

They turned toward the stage only to find Ian waiting aimlessly in their path like a lost puppy.

"Oh yeah, him." Brianna wrinkled her nose.

"Ian, you can come with us if you like!" Roger motioned for him to follow.

Grunting, the lad followed Brianna and Roger as they nodded at a bouncer guarding the opening leading back into the curtained-off area behind the festival stage. He was unhappy this turn of events had drawn the warm glow of Brianna's attention away from him and was especially frustrated to be forced to watch her shine on Roger Mac, but he quickly forgot his resentment as they approached a table laden like a king's feast with all kinds of meats, breads, cheeses, fruits and strangely shaped, colorful foods that Ian didn't recognize.

Kindly, Roger leaned toward Ian and pointed to a strange ring of pink insect-looking objects encircling a dish of red sauce. "That's shrimp." He whispered to Ian. "You're going to want to try that!"

"Hasn't he had a crayfish or something?" Brianna looked at Roger. Ian was happy to at least be the subject of conversation.

"There aren't small crustaceans in Scotland." Roger shook his head. "Have you had crab then, Ian? Or Norway Lobster?" 

Brianna and Roger looked at Ian: his cheeks were filled with shrimp and he was shoving a large handful into the woefully small pockets of his vest. He jumped when he saw the two of them staring at him.

"Ian, come on! I'm not going to spend four and a half hours in a car with your nasty fish smell!" Brianna rolled her eyes.

"Cousin! I havena seen food like this -can we get shrimp in Boston, then?" He said eagerly, with a small bit of marinara dotting his chin.

"Yeah, New England trawls like ten million pounds of shrimp a year!" Brianna smiled, in spite of herself. "I'll get you shrimp whenever you want."

"The food is definitely the best thing about 1967." Roger murmured, filling his small paper plate with slices of cheese and cured meats.

"Yeah, I guess it's just nice that the standard of living has gone up for normal people. Plus global fare is more accessible now." Brianna moved toward him, out of splattering range of Ian's messy love-affair with the shrimp.

"You should have seen him when I gave him peanut butter." Roger's eyes widened. "The things we take for granted, can you imagine them just... not existing?"

"Jeez, I couldn't live without peanut butter!" Brianna chuckled. "Although I guess, having experienced it, it wouldn't be hard to make."

"Assuming you travelled back in time?" Roger's brow quirked and he eyed her carefully.

"Uh...well... yeah, I guess." Brianna got very quiet and then was suddenly interested in grabbing a bunch of grapes on the other side of Ian.

Roger was surprised she had even allowed this line of thinking. They had both acknowledged that they heard the stones when they brought Claire to Craigh na Dun last fall. Upon sharing this mutual discovery that he and Brianna were both possible time travelers, the Reverend had taken both their hands in his wrinkled grasp and said that they 'ought not to embark on a journey the without making peace with the destination.' At the time Roger had thought his adoptive father was trying to communicate something about his relationship with Brianna, their chemistry was undeniable after all. But Brianna had become quite shy about the subject of the stones and Roger had thought now that her parents were here in 1967 it was all a moot point. What would make her even contemplate traveling back in time?

"Had enough shrimp yet, man?" A tall young black man with a thin goatee and big afro was standing just behind Ian, wearing an easygoing, amused smile. The man wore a frilly, Edwardian blouse and beaded vest above huge, coral-colored bell bottoms: he had an energized, vibrant energy.

"I'm so sorry..." Brianna lunged toward Ian, grabbing him by the elbow. She was about to start into her 'my-cousin-from-Scotland-born-in-a-barn speech when she stopped dead in her tracks. 

_No_. She thought, blinking at the face she had only seen in pictures. _It couldn't be._

"It's okay, honey." The man shrugged good-naturedly and helped himself to the remaining few pieces of shrimp. "The cat can dig some shrimp, can't blame him for that!"

"Oh my God," Roger turned around. "I heard you were coming, what a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hendrix!"

"Hey, no worries." The rock legend smiled, dumping a handful of sliced fruit onto his plate. "You all with the, like, Scottish band that played a minute ago? The Incredible Strings?"

"Aye -yes, that'll be me." Roger blushed, feeling foolish that he was suddenly extremely self conscious of his performance knowing that Jimi Hendrix had heard him play.

"Oh yeah, you must be the one with that nice low voice, Janis pointed you out. Damn, you better watch your back man, she wants to get all freaky on you." Hendrix smirked, waving an olive fork at Roger. He vaguely remembered a short-skirted brunette throwing herself at him on the stairs. 

"Yeah," Hendrix continued, "It's not really my type of music but we were all feelin' your sound back here. I've heard a little of that folk stuff living in London --real sad, but kinda groovy too."

"It's a cold, grey country, Scotland." Roger smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid Scots are innately sad and dour."

"Hey, every music is just some type of the blues." Hendrix laughed. "I'm from Seattle, it's pretty cold there but it's a nice type of cold. Not like here in New York."

"Didn't you live in Greenwich Village for a while?" Brianna had cracked out of her star-struck shell and wanted to get in on the conversation with her favorite rock icon.

"Yeah, I played at Cafe Wha? and a few clubs around Manhattan." Hendrix nodded, popping a grape in his mouth. "You play in London much?" He nodded at Roger.

"I haven't played a gig for years, honestly." Roger flushed. "Unless you count singing Gahdlig for my Scottish Folk Literature class." 

"Well, shit, you don't really put off a stuffy professor vibe but I pick up on that intellectual energy from you." Hendrix motioned at Roger, as if tracing his hypothetical aura. 

"And you" He turned to Brianna. "You have an extremely muddled flow of energy, I can't figure you out. It's like half of you belongs here and half belongs somewhere else. Like you're here but not really here. Damn." He reached out and poked her shoulder as if to learn if she was a semipermeable ghost. Brianna's mouth dropped open, completely taken aback.

Jimi Hendrix looked at Ian and smiled with a piercing knowingness that made Ian drop a piece of shrimp. For a moment, Ian thought that the musician was peering into some dimension that told him exactly where Ian had come from and how he had gotten here.

"Hmm" Hendrix chuckled. "You crazy Celtic cats. Nice meeting you." The guitarist nodded and then stuck an appetizer into his mouth, wandering off toward another part of the tent.

Feeling oddly exposed, the three of them gathered their food and slinked off to a row of folding chairs in an inconspicuous corner of the VIP area. They tucked into their hors-devoirs with less appetite than they had when first approaching the table.

"Roger Mac." Ian leaned toward him, speaking in a low voice. "Who was that man? When he looked at me 'twas like he could see me tadger n baws straight through me breeks... I mean jeans."

"Yeah that was really weird." Brianna shivered. "I mean, there's a lot of spiritual woo-woo stuff in this scene but it's just a lot of self righteous hog wash."

"That was Jimi Hendrix, Ian. He's perhaps the most talented guitarist alive, and a very intuitive person, I gather." Roger mused. "Sensitive, perhaps, but he didn't see your tadger, I promise."

"I dinna ken about this time." Ian shook his head. "Tiny people on telo-vision screens and yawpin ou' of wee radio boxes. Eventually some odd device will ken we can travel through the stones and we'll be caught!"

"Well if anyone asks you if you're a time traveller here, Ian, just say yes." Roger said with a clever smile curling one side of his mouth.

"What?" Brianna's head snapped around at him.

"Just say you travel with mushrooms." Roger snickered. 

Brianna and Roger doubled over with laughter, drowning out Ian's flabbergasted questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim Morrison really was obsessed with Celtic spirituality, it's referenced in some songs from The Doors and he unofficially married a rock journalist in 1970 using the Scottish handfasting ritual (including the arm-cutting thing!) Morrison was also obsessed with Nietzsche -he had a complete volume of his works, I had to throw in my favorite quote.
> 
> Jimi Hendrix actually played the Schaefer Music Festival in Central Park on this exact day, and he actually said that quote about Seattle: I listened to a couple of interviews to try and capture his voice and cadence and just had to weave that quote in because I'm from Seattle! He was known to be an extremely intuitive person, an interviewer said he felt like Hendrix was measuring his intentions. I like to imagine that some of the spirituality/sci-fi elements from the Outlander series correlates to the 'energetic' theories made popular by the hippy era. Maybe in this universe Jimi Hendrix did intuitively know that Brianna, Ian, and Roger were time travelers.


	24. Greenwich Village, Manhattan July 29 1967

Ian's mouth felt sticky. The clashing drums and shrill voices from the record player in the corner clamored above the din of laughing voices that filled the hazy, smokey room. Vishnu and Raven's apartment felt like it was spinning around him like the odd turning plate in his aunt and uncle's kitchen. 

_Lazy Susan. _He thought, stumbling over a silk cushion, the drink in his paper cup sloshing out onto the hardwood floor.

He felt sorry for Susan, it didn't seem fair that she forever endure the accusation of laziness. Surely there were plenty of Margarets and Katherines that were lazy too. In fact there were more than one Elizabeths he had known to be lazy.

"Lazy Lizzie." Ian said out loud, giggling absurdly.

"Oh my God, Ian you are the cutest drunk I've ever seen." David's girlfriend Tracy grabbed a hold of his elbow to steady him. In her other hand Tracy held a bottle of cheap vodka and dumped some in his cup.

"Thank ye ever so kindly, m'lady." Ian kissed her hand, wobbling alarmingly.

"Raven, come check out Ian..." Tracy cackled with laughter. "He's turned into some kind of Disney prince!"

"Well hello, feeling pretty groovy, Ian?" Raven was shuffling to the blasting music.

"I'm fair fashed ye've got no whiskey!" He stuttered. "But I'll do wi' yer wee...what did ye say it was called?"

"It's a 'Sex on the Beach'" Raven said loudly over the music. "Sorry about the whiskey, I made this in a large batch with vodka and peach schnapps!" She tapped his cup.

"Dinna fash yerself, love..." He smiled happily. "It tastes like Zeussss himself poured it into me cup!"

Tracy and Raven giggled hysterically.

"And am I Zeus or are you Zeus?" Tracy snorted, clearly having too much fun picking on Ian.

"I'm an eighteenth century Scottish highlander from Lallybroch Castle!" Ian said, draining his cup. "I came here to yer time through the stones at Craig na Dun!"

"Wow," Raven chuckled. "He's drunker than I thought!"

"Och yer bums oot the windae!" Ian slurred. "A Scot's no drunk until his arse and his heid are where his...!"

Tracy and Raven caught Ian as he stumbled again.

"Jesus!" Tracy exclaimed. "He is fricken blitzed!"

Raven lowered Ian down on the large blue velvet chesterfield that lined one wall and patted his leg.

"You just settle there, Ian." She said sweetly. "I'll get you some water."

Ian didn't feel like sitting on a fixed point had slowed the room from spinning around him. His eyes locked on Bree and Roger dancing slowly by the window. Frustration clanged in his brain but he was too unsteady to move. He glowered at them angrily until he felt someone sink down on the couch cushion next to him. 

"Hi." A pair of deep, brown eyes framed in thick, dark lashes were blinking at him. 

Ian looked up muzzily to see the a beautiful young woman in a short, tye-dyed tank tress and jean jacket. Her long, shiny black hair hung loose around her shoulders and was circled with a thin headband. Her features were elegant and queenly; high cheekbones rose above her dazzling smile as she looked at Ian.

"Raven said you could use this." She handed Ian a glass of water. 

Stunned, Ian accepted the cup and dutifully took a sip.

"She's my cousin." The girl smiled kindly. "You're Ian, right? Bree's cousin?"

Ian nodded, still unable to speak to the radiant princess.

"Well look at us, third wheels to our stupid, sappy cousins and their boyfriends." She sighed, looking at the dance floor where the couples were slow dancing.

"Yer name?" Ian croaked, finding his voice. "I mean, would you tell me yer name?"

"You want to know my name?" She blinked. "Well the way you asked that makes me feel like I should tell you my Mohawk name, it's Wakyo'teyehsnonhsa which roughly translates as "works with her hands." She smiled shyly. 

"That is the most beautiful thing I have every heard." Ian breathed, still not aware how uninhibited he was.

She laughed self-consciously but eyed Ian with a new interest.

"I doubt you can pronounce that." She grinned. "You can just call me Emily."

"Emily." Ian sighed as if drinking the word in.

"So Raven asked me to bring you that." Emily gestured toward the glass of water. "But I'm thinking you could use some of this." She lifted her right hand where she held a curious, rolled up wad of paper that trailed with a thin curl of smoke.

"I dinna ken what that is, Emily." He said honestly.

"You've never smoked weed?" She looked at him quizzically. "Mary Jane? Marijuana? The Devil's Lettuce?"

Ian shook his head.

"Wow, Raven wasn't lying when she said you were a bit wet behind the ears."

"I grew up on a farm in Scotland." Ian shrugged. "I dinna ken much about yer time." He gulped. "I mean, yer customs here in the United States." His eyes darted furtively. Emily looked confused but seemed to shrug it off.

"Here try this." She handed him the joint. "Just breathe slow and start with just a little, it's a really potent strain."

Ian knew how to smoke, and was eager not to look silly taking this devil's lettuce stuff. He didn't feel any different taking a long pull on the joint. He smirked at Emily and blew a perfect smoke ring.

"What!" A huge grin spread on her face. "Not bad, Scottie, try this."

Emily took a deep drag on the joint and projected a large smoke ring, followed by a smaller one that drifted lazily through the first.

"Damn!" Ian's eyes widened. "Where I come from lassies canna do that!"

"I think you'll find the 'lassies' over here a little more interesting." Emily flashed a flirtatious smile.

"Oh, I do." Ian looked at her with untethered sincerity.

"How do you feel?" Emily was surveying Ian, as if something dramatic was supposed to happen to him.

"I dinna ken," He shrugged. "Certainly less steamin' drunk thanks to yer water."

"Hmm..." She smirked knowingly.

Ian thought the shine of her hair was like the glossy mane of a black mare, galloping over the tall grass of the moor in summertime. He felt the details of her beautiful face start to articulate under his longing gaze one by one: the slender arc of her eyebrow, the tiny upturn in her delightful little nose, the soft glow of her dark skin. 

He suddenly became aware of the clanging sounds of the music, a slight itch under the collar of his shirt and the feeling of her knee pressed ever so slightly against his leg. He wanted to gather her up like a bouquet of wildflowers and breathe in her radiant beauty.

"_Mo nighean dubh_..." Ian sighed. 

"Huh?" Emily blinked at him.

"Och, dinna mind me, lass." Ian shook his head. "I suddenly find myself maudlin in my mother tongue."

"That will be the weed." Emily laughed.

"Is that why I feel like my tongue is too big for my face?" Ian let out a silly laugh.

"Most definitely!" Emily chuckled. "I feel myself sliding into the language of my grandmother when I smoke sometimes. It's such an ancient tongue: I just want to express the _feelings_, you know?"

Ian nodded. "The _Gaidhlig_ has more pictures to its words than the sassenach speech."

"Sassy-what?" Emily blinked at him.

"Sasssssssenach." Ian said with a ridiculous laugh.

They doubled over, cackling and howling above the din of the party.

A slow song crackled over the oversized speakers attached to the record player. Brianna held Roger's shoulders with a featherlight touch; he felt like her contact with him was palpably immaterial as if she stood halfway in another world. She looked at him with eyes dark as a burn: swirling with unanswered questions.

"When Clive asked me to play with his band, I said yes because I wanted to see you." Roger said softly.

"I wanted to see you too." Brianna whispered, a flash of her spirit bobbing on the surface of her doubts.

"I wasn't sure... I wanted to reach out before but I didn't think it was the right time." He stammered over his words. "I knew I wanted to be with you last summer but it didn't seem like the right time."

With a flicker of her soul stepping onto the shore like Aphrodite landing on the beaches of Greece, Brianna leaned in and silenced his tangle of words with a kiss. Roger reached around and clung to her as if she might fade from this world at any moment, kissing her face and neck searchingly.

"Let's go back there." She nodded toward the hallway leading to the bedroom.

Roger felt his body ignite with desire but checked himself.

"We don't have to do anything." She said quietly. "It's just for privacy."

Brianna lead him down the hall into a large room with a big picture window overlooking the brilliant skyline of Manhattan. Leaning back on the burgundy bedspread, she looked even more like a forest sprite in her silky green dress, and loose cascade of red hair wreathed in moonlight. Roger longed to touch her.

He sank on the bed next to her.

"I want you, Brianna," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "I cannot be saying it plainer than that. I love you. Will you marry me?"

With a stab in his stomach, her eyes clouded over as if her spirit were dragged down into the depths by a damning grasp of a water horse.

"You didn't want me to say that, did you?" His heart was pounding in his ears as her face changed like he had hurled a rock into the glassy surface of a loch.

She shook her head, 

"Forget I said anything." He pulled away from her.

"Roger, wait." Brianna grasped his arm as he turned to go.

He didn't want to face her, but he swiveled around on the bed anyway. 

With a powerful surge, Brianna rucked her dress up around her waist and swung her leg over his lap, pressing her lips to his mouth in passion.

"What the..." Roger pushed her away. "What in God's name are you playing at?" His angry voice filled the room.

"I'm not playing! You said you wanted me!" She retorted. "I want you too, don't you know that?"

"I thought I knew," Roger's voice broke. "But I don't just want your body, Brianna! I want all of you! I want to be beside you every day. I want that part of your spirit that you hide from me!"

"You ask too much!" She said, plunging away from him into the ephemeral distance of a blank, hardened face.

"So you won't marry me, but you'll fuck me?" He erupted with rage.

"Don't use that sort of language to me!" She shouted.

"Language? You can suggest such a thing, but I must not say the word?" Roger snapped. "You're tearing my guts out, Brianna!"

Their eyes blazed at one another, their chests rising and falling with violent emotion. Roger had never felt so betrayed, yet he found that provoking Brianna had inadvertently made her more engaged and present than ever. It confused him.

"I can't marry you Roger, because I care too deeply about you!" She showed her hand.

"And why the hell would that be?" Roger shook with exasperation.

"I'm afraid." Her voice dropped. "My mother married young, and look where that marriage got her. She made promises to Daddy... Frank Randall, promises that she didn't keep! I understand her love for Jamie now, but it was truly awful to grow up trapped between the loveless emptiness of her and my father."

"You're not your mother, Brianna." Roger said softly.

"It's all just so quick, Roger!" She looked up at him sharply. "When I marry you -when I marry anybody- it's going to last, do you hear me? If I make a vow like that I'll keep it no matter what it costs me!"

Her words rang in his ears. 

Brianna was finally open and raw; tears spilled down her luminous, moonlit cheeks. "I'm enrolled in an accelerated program at MIT, and you work at Oxford. It will be more than a year before we could be together."

"I'll wait." He said quietly. "Hear me though: I will have you all, or not at all."

Brianna pressed her lips to his forehead, peppering light kisses down the side of his face until she met his lips. Roger closed his eyes with a deep exhale and sought that part of her soul she now set before him, even as she paused any official designation of their relationship. They fought fiercely through their fear and hiding to connect, searching in the connection of their lips to find one another.

Roger broke away and pulled out a small package from his jacket pocket.

"I meant to give you this after the show." He blushed.

With a small smile, Brianna took it and unwrapped a shining circle bracelet with small words etched in the silver.

"Je t'aime... un peu... beaucoup... passionément... pas du tout." She read. "I love you a little, a lot, passionately, not at all."

"Je t'aime." Roger said in a quiet voice, rising from the bed.

"Moi aussi." Brianna replied, standing beside him with the full radiance of her spirit shining onto him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for reading along! 
> 
> If you guys are interested, I would love some feedback on another work I'm doing set in the American Revolution period called The Tory and the Spy? It is a very emotional and kinda spicy story that I figured would appeal to Outlander fans since it's got a similar setting and elements. Let me know what you think!


	25. Boston Common, July 29, 1967

The crowd was thick with grey and black hats, shoulders pressed together despite the blistering heat. Jamie was grateful for the shade of his own wide-brimmed fedoras covering the sensitive ridge of his nose, which was already slightly reddened from a weekend of learning a new game with Claire called _tennis_.

She had been quite good, but Jamie was determined to stay out in the July heat and master the use of a _racket_ to propel the amusing little fuzzy _tennis ball_. Additionally, Jamie has been enchanted with the way Claire leaped and parried across the net from him in her little tennis skirt, her vigorous efforts winning her match after match. With a smirk, Jamie thought he had ultimately been the victor when they had torn off each other’s sporting garments in a sequestered corner of the locker room. For all the pleasant successes of the day, he had suffered a miserable sunburn on the end of his nose.

Jamie shifted his feet to see around a especially large khaki hat that blocked his view of the podium. Speaking into the crackling microphone was a short, lace-clad woman with brown curly hair and thick, cat-eye glasses. The woman wore a formal pillbox hat and a polite, well-coiffed demeanor that starkly contrasted the querulous words pelting from her mouth.

Jamie’s stomach curled with indignation as the thinly-veiled bigotry earned her murmured and nods throughout the crowd. He channeled his fury in the vigorous movements of his pencil on his notepad as he transcribed bits of the speech he would quote later in his report.

“This is rather nasty.” Came a whisper from velvety lips by his ear.

“I canna write wi’out journalistic decorum, Sassenach, but Louise Day Hicks is a regular auld besom.” Jamie turned toward me and tipped his face into my thick curls to muffle his uncensored opinion. It wouldn’t do to attract unwanted attention at a political rally for the mayoral candidate.

I wore a wide-brimmed white hat and matching linen trench which hung open over a fitted black polka-dot dress. My large, stylish sunglasses barely masked the incredulous look my face, I could feel my red-rouged lips curled in disbelief.

“I’m going to need two whiskeys after this.” I huffed.

A rumbling laugh tumbled in Jamie’s chest.

He scratched out a particularly salient quote, blinking in amazement that Hicks would so brashly speak against _Brown v. Board of Education_. Anyone listening who didn’t understand what this Supreme Court ruling meant might think the decision was an infringement on children’s rights, from the way Hicks told it.

“What ye really mean is that equal access to education will take away yer bloated advantages.” Jamie muttered through gritted teeth.

I scoffed and shook my head.

“Would you fucking commies keep your commentary to yourselves?” The khaki hat swiveled around to reveal a reddened face of a man in round glasses.

“Dinna speak that way to my wife, sir!” Jamie growled.

“I’m sorry,” I intervened, “you’re right, it’s impolite to talk during a speech.”

The angry man blinked at me but was cowed by my response. He shot a vicious glare at Jamie and turned back around.

Jamie and I flinched and twitched through the rest of Louise Day Hicks’ maddeningly short-sighted depiction of the state of Boston. She promised to defend parental rights and keep black schools from bussing their “undercompetent” students to Boston’s good schools. Hicks not only presented this as a protection of Boston’s educational standards, she also lambasted Kevin White and the “liberal elites who think they ought to impose their will on the ignorant, deplorable masses.”

By the time the crowd cheered for the ending of her speech, Jamie’s neck was beet red.

“Goodness, I’d hate to see your blood pressure reading!” I said over the clapping and yelling, placing two fingers on Jamie’s neck and checking his pulse.

The crowd died down as Hicks took a question from a reporter for the Times.

“Miss Hicks!” Jamie lurched forward, raising his hand with his pencil still tucked between two fingers. “Jamie Fraser with the Boston Globe!”

Louise Day Hicks surveyed Jamie from the podium, her eyes narrowed.

“Can ye explain what ye mean by ‘undercompetent’ students being bussed to more affluent schools?” Jamie poised his pencil expectantly on his pad of paper.

“Well if it isn’t Red Jamie, the new communist columnist for the Globe.” A devilish smile curled on Hick’s face.

Jamie shook his head.

“Communist?” I snorted, chuckling. “Dear God!”

“I’m not insinuating that black students are less competent, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Mr. Fraser.” Hicks sneered at him. “I’m merely saying that schools like Roxbury have consistently turned out lower quality students, and it would be detrimental to mix them with our well-performing students.”

“Follow up question!” Jamie’s deep voice resonated across the crowd, demanding Hicks’ attention. “How do ye plan to improve test scores in Roxbury if ye wilna allow bussing nor remedial funding?”

“Everyone has an equal opportunity to apply themselves in our schools, Mr. Fraser.” Hicks sniffed indignantly. “I was a poor student myself in the lower grades, but with tutoring and some good old fashioned elbow grease I improved by high school. It’s a shame we don’t see much of that hard work ethic in our young people anymore.”

“And how are Roxbury families working at the factory supposed to afford a tutor?” I hollered indignantly.

“I’ve had enough, lady!” The khaki hatted man spun around.

“Calm down, sir!” I scolded, losing my patience.

The crowd shifted with low mutters and dirty glances were thrown at me and Jamie.

“I think it’s time for that drink, Sassenach.” Jamie smirked, taking my arm in his and guiding us out of the repugnant crowd and into a calmer section of the park.

We followed the paved pathway out of earshot of the rally and circled the square where jugglers, pedestrians and the odd guitar player milled about by the chortling fountain.

“It bothers me to no end to hear Hicks blame the poor for having bad character.” I kicked a pebble with my black heels. “As if parents working two jobs are somehow not trying hard enough for their children.”

“It’s the auld way, Claire.” Jamie murmured. “The nobility deserve their privilege and the working people are invisible.”

“Who knew Boston would get an eighteenth century candidate on their ticket this fall.” I chuckled ruefully.

“And who would ken an actual eighteenth century writer would be setting fire to her campaign?” Jamie grinned, beaming at me proudly.

“My delightfully inflammatory, roguish muck-raker!” I pushed my shoulder flirtatiously into Jamie’s. A pleased sound rumbled in his chest as he tipped my hat back and leaned down with a kiss.

Our lips teased one another in sensuous contact, ignoring the gawking passers by.

“I have an idea, Jamie.” I smiled.

“If it has anything to do wi’ what we were just doing...” Jamie gave me a dark, desirous look.

“Actually it has more to do with dinner plans.” I smacked his hand that reached for my fitted bodice.

“You choose dinner, I choose dessert.” A playful grin spread across his face.

“Deal.” I nodded. “Although I’m fairly certain your idea of dessert won’t involve food.”

Jamie tapped his chin, pretending to be thinking. “Weel, ye could...” He shrugged impishly.

“Really!” I scoffed teasingly, shoving Jamie as he laughed wickedly. “It’s a wonder I can take you anywhere, James Fraser!”

I took Jamie’s hand and lead him out of the park and down a side street where rows of shops began to feature different languages from around the world.

“I’ve wandered through here, Sassenach, when ye were in yer wee OR long and I didna ken what to do wi’ myself.”

“There’s a lovely place here with food I know would be difficult to get for you in the eighteenth century.” My heart raced with excitement.

The shopfront was titled Matsuda Family Restaurant in bright yellow letters. Porcelain cats were perched about the doorway: a friendly greeting as Jamie and I stepped inside.

“Welcome!” A young Japanese American woman smiled at them as she bussed a table. The small dining area was full of patrons enjoying a Saturday dinner. Past the row of tables I could see a middle aged man and woman cooking quickly with practiced grace. I remembered eating here years ago and looking back to kitchen longingly to catch a glimpse of this couple’s familiar, loving dance about the room full of steaming, sizzling pots and pans.

I craned my neck and spotted them, the wife placed a spoon down gently as the husband swept behind her, a glint in his eye as they passed each other. I couldn’t help but smile, I would come here for years when I missed Jamie and feed off the glow these two radiated from the back of the restaurant.

“Look!” I grabbed Jamie’s arm, tears of nostalgia pricking in my eyes.

Jamie studied the Japanese American man and wife, whispering with one another over a bubbling pot, charmingly oblivious to the voyeurs spying on their sweet romance.

“They’re in love, Sorcha.” Jamie murmured.

“I used to come here for years —and think of you.” I whispered in his ear.

“Those are my parents.” A voice came from behind them.

“Oh goodness, you startled me!” I laughed.

“Sorry!” The young woman was holding two menus. She gestured for Jamie and I to follow her to a table by the window.

“Forgive me for staring at your parents.” I offered as we sank down into our seats.

“Oh, don’t worry.” The woman shrugged. “They’re such saps, I know they’re the talk of the town.”

“I think everyone wants a love like theirs.” I murmured.

“Yeah.” The corner of the waitress’ mouth curled in a smile. “The older I get, the more I’ve come to believe they have something really special.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You used to come in here all the time right?”

“Yes.” I blushed. “But now I have a special someone of my own to bring here.” I reached across the table and grasped Jamie’s hand.

“How nice!” The waitress smiled at Jamie warmly. “Welcome to Matsuda’s, I’m Nguyen, and I’ll be taking your order today. Any drinks to start you off?”

“Coffee.” Jamie nodded politely.

“I’ll have a jasmine tea.” I ordered.

“Great, I’ll have those right out for you!” Nguyen strode off toward the kitchen.

The restaurant was small enough that the patrons could hear the enthusiastic family banter that went on in the back of the restaurant. Little smiles on the faces of the diners revealed that this was a collective, unspoken attraction of Matsuda’s: in the fragmented, hectic city life, people just wanted to draw near the glow of a family who loved each other.

“I used to imagine it was you and me in the kitchen, with Bree as our waitress.” I admitted to him with a blush, glancing up at him through my thick, long lashes.

“What kind of restaurant would we have, _mo nighean donn_?” Jamie stroked her hand, letting a small smile quirk on his lips.

“A pub!” I flushed happily. “In Inverness, with Murtagh pouring the tap and Angus and Rupert lounging at the bar!”

“Angus and Rupert!” Jamie laughed nostalgically. “And Murtagh, he would serve wi’ us in our pub until his dying day!” His eyes grew soft.

“It’s a silly thought.” I looked down at the menu, cheeks blooming.

“No, Sorcha.” Jamie’s blue eyes pierced me with feeling. “Ye made a memory for us when we were apart for so long. I dinna ken what’s wrong wi’ holding a wee place in yer heart for such things.”

My eyes grew glassy.

“Sassenach.” Jamie looked down at his menu, puzzled. “Can ye tell me about this... su-shi...?”

“Sushi!” I grinned. “Yes, it’s so lovely, Jamie, I’m practically beside myself with excitement for you to try it! It’s special rolls made of rice, vegetables, seaweed and raw fish.”

“Raw fish, ye say?” Jamie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not everyone likes it, but I’m exceptionally fond of it.” I pointed to the menu. “Here are more traditional options called nigiri —it’s a single type of fish on a small bit of rice... Oh bother, I’m not explaining it well.”

“Weel, we will just have to order one o’ everything!” Jamie smiled.

“Really, Jamie?” I effused. “You’d like to try it?”

“You’re fond o’ it, so how can I resist?”

“Oh Jamie, I do love you!”

When Nguyen returned, I ordered several rolls, nigiri and sashimi. When our miso soup arrived, Jamie inhaled the rich, steaming liquid.

“It tastes a wee bit like a tonic a healer gave me when I was a lad at Leoch.” He sipped from the thick, ceramic spoon.

“Miso is a fermented soy paste.” I said, feeling soothed by the warm broth. “It’s very stimulating for your intestinal microflora.”

“I dinna ken if that’s good or bad, Sassenach.” Jamie’s eyes twinkled mirthfully. “First ye say germs are trying to taking ow’er the body, then ye want to stimulate yer wee microbes.”

I let a sparkling cascade of laughter escape from my lips.

“Think of it like MacKenzies, if everyone is seated at Colum’s table and Dougal walks in, there’s nowhere for him to sit and perhaps he will just leave. But if you don’t have any goodly Mackenzies at the table, it will soon fill up with the wicked ones!”

“I feel like a bairn hearing ye explain it that way, Claire, but I ken what yer saying.” Jamie chuckled, shaking his head.

Nguyen came out with several trays of brilliant, colorful food.

“Oh my, how lovely!” I exclaimed as the bright rolls topped with salmon and tuna sat in near little rows next to a formation of pert little slabs of fish drizzled with unagi sauce and slices of avocado.

“It’s a wee garden!” Jamie’s eyes lit up.

“Nguyen,” I looked up at the waitress. “Jamie has never used chopsticks, would you show him how?”

“Oh certainly.” The young woman took a plastic set out of a folded napkin. “You’re going to hold the first chopstick in these fingers like this,” she showed Jamie, “and then the other one goes in your pointer finger and thumb like this.” She demonstrated the pinching motion.

“I’m having a wee bit o’ trouble...” A low laugh rumbled in Jamie’s chest as he fumbled with the cutlery, dropping a chopstick.

“That’s ok, here...” She grabbed a clean set and took a hold of Jamie’s hand, fitting the chopsticks in his fingers correctly. Her cheeks bloomed as she touched the handsome Scot’s hand.

“Ah!” Jamie made the chopsticks pinch up and down, grinning foolishly at me.

“That’s the way, soldier!” I nodded.

“Well, can I get you anything else?” The waitress blinked eagerly at Jamie.

“Thank ye, lass.” He smiled kindly.

Nguyen returned to the kitchen, and the dining room could hear little giggles between women’s voices.

“Looks like you’ve made an impression.” I smirked knowingly at Jamie.

“Let’s tuck into this wee sushi, aye?” Jamie’s eyes glittered over the tempting array of delights spread before them.

“I’m so anxious to know what you think!” I grinned.

With an unsteady grip on the chopsticks, Jamie picked up a crab roll topped with tuna. He popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes.

“Well?” I leaned over the table expectantly. “I’m dying of suspense!”

“It’s like a raw herring I had in France.” Jamie’s face broke into a smile. “Only better.” He plucked another up and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s milder, more subtle flavor and interesting green tastes wi’ the seaweed and such.”

“You like it?” I was childishly giddy.

“Ye’ll be needing to eat quicker, _mo nighean donn_, if yer to have some as well!” Jamie parried my chopsticks with his like a little sword fight. “I could eat a hundred of these wee bites!”

“Oh no!” I laughed happily. “We will just have to come back next week!”

Our eyes met in blissful connection, and behind Jamie’s head I caught sight of Nguyen’s parents in the kitchen, in a tender embrace.

My heart felt two times too big for my chest.

It was as if our love was multiplied by the past memory of longing and the future I saw for me and Jamie mirrored in this older couple.

“I love you, Jamie.” I whispered.

“_Daisuki desu_.” Jamie replied, his eyes glittering with humor at my gasp of surprise that he could say so in Japanese.


	26. The Green Dragon Tavern, September 12, 1967

"Shit, Fraser." Bob Healy ground his cigarette butt into the sidewalk and trotted to catch up with Jamie's long legged strides. "I'll make you the political editor and retire if I have to spend the next years seeing Hicks in city hall!"

They were walking along the brick-paved Marshall Street in a sea of bobbing hats, the mid-September heat still baking the streets with summer's warmth with no promise of fall's cooling chill.

"Hicks is already in city hall on the council,_ mo charaid_." Jamie chuckled.

"Think about how much time we already spend in the mayor's office, Fraser." Healy shuddered. "I'm sending you down there alone if she wins."

"Och, dinna ruin my day, Healy," Jamie took a joking tone. "I'm already heartbroken ow'er the wee Red Sox."

"Shut up, Fraser." Healy socked the laughing Scot in the arm. "I'll make a regular Bostonian out of you yet! Ya see the Sox are in a dog fight with Chicago, Minnesota, and Detroit for the top of the American League but now that we lost Sunday we've gotta sweep the Twins this week and the Tigers need to lose at least one game to the Angels..."

"Healy, yer making my heid spin." Jamie snorted. "I dinna care ow'ermuch for the American League pennant or baseball in general."

"Just let me take you to a Sox game and it'll change your mind." Healy grinned. "I know a guy with a private box: surf and turf, champaign... you'll be a Sox fan in no time!"

"Sounds like I'll be more o' a fan of steak and wee shrimps." Jamie shook his head.

"Just promise me you'll let me take you and the wife." Healy reached for the sticky door handle of the old tavern. "We don't have to do a box, we can do the whole peanuts and Cracker Jack thing if you like with front row seats."

"Perhaps Claire would like that." Jamie grunted, following Healy inside the noisy bar. "Or Brianna." He brightened.

"Welcome to the Green Dragon!" Healy looked back at Jamie as they worked their way through the crowded aisle, sliding into a seat at a little private table in the back corner. The room was dimly lit with swooping cast iron lights and images on the wall featuring Boston in the 1700s. "This spot is a gem of history, the Sons of Liberty met here and they say Paul Revere left for his midnight ride from this very place!"

"Verra interesting." Jamie's eyes darted about the familiar tools and objects hung as memorabilia, his tie suddenly feeling very tight.

"But of course you probably don't care much about 18th century America since you likely studied Scotland's history in school." Healy settled into his chair and flapped open a menu.

Jamie grunted and studied the options printed on the laminated menu.

"There he is!" Healy stood and Jamie lurched up beside him, whirling around.

"Nice to see you, Healy." A white toothed grin flashed from the handsome face of Robert F. Kennedy, who held his twill hat in one hand and reached for Bob Healy's hand with the other.

"You'll remember my associate, the columnist James Fraser?" Healy's eyebrows shot up.

"Oh yes, Fraser." Kennedy shook Jamie's hand with the pleasant smile of a perfect politician, but Jamie caught a glint of coldness in his eyes. Coldness and respect.

"A pleasure to see you again, Senator." Jamie gave a relaxed smile.

Kennedy subconsciously rubbed his chin as they sat down and pulled up to the table with the screech of chairs sliding on the wooden floor.

"A fascinating place, sir." Jamie looked around the historic tavern.

"Yeah, I'm a real fan of American history." Kennedy's eyes followed a large map of 1776 Boston behind Healy's head.

"You'd certainly have to be, to have made as much history as this guy has!" Healy laughed sycophantically.

"You know, Boston could have been our capital city." Kennedy looked down at the menu.

"But o' course inland was more preferable," Jamie quipped, "seeing as ye had to protect yer leaders from the greatest Navy in the world."

"Jesus, Fraser!" Healy gawked. "I thought you just said you knew nothing about the 18th century!"

"I ken a little." Jamie shrugged.

Kennedy's eyes narrowed but he said nothing and studied his menu.

They ordered beer and lunch and chatted until their food came. Jamie did his best to avoid upstaging Senator Kennedy but he sensed the man prodding him, testing his confidence and measuring his dick with every question and turn of conversation. For his part, Jamie wouldn't follow Healy down the path of flattery, despite numerous opportunities his co-worker carefully paved for him. 

By the time their food arrived, Healy looked exasperated and the two blue-eyed gingers were eyeing each other like wild dogs circling a bone.

"Well let's get down to business, eh?" Healy looked from Jamie to Robert, Robert to Jamie. "Louise Day Hicks just won the Boston mayoral primary this morning and if we don't get our asses in gear she's going to be running this town by January."

"What was the response to your endorsement of Kevin White?" Kennedy took a bite of his BLT, the tension cooling slightly between himself and Jamie. "Did you get letters?"

"Letters were favorable." Healy surveyed Jamie's delectable looking rueben with jealousy. "But we already know that about our more vocal readership, what we don't know is how Hicks can receive such broad support in the primary when all the voices of the media and public conversation seem to disavow her."

"I don't get it." Kennedy shook his head. "Nobody supports her but she gets all the votes?"

"We called it the lean-ins." Jamie looked up from his plate, eyes glittering. "Ye go to a tavern and everyone acts like good and loyal subjects o' the k...ah... queen." He leaned toward Healy and Kennedy, their heads drawing closer together. "But then ye lean in wi' yer mates and say, 'I'm for a free Scotland.'"

"So outwardly everyone is embarrassed by Hick's foul talk, but in private company they're actually in favor of the anti-bussing candidate." Kennedy smiled ruefully. "Jesus Christ."

"We've run story after story about busing, informing the public about how poorer kids perform so much higher in better funded schools -what more can we do if they just downright don't want their kids mixing?" Healy said in frustration.

"On our end we're already talking with the NAACP about moving to the courts and suing the Boston School District on the grounds that they won't abide by the Racial Rebalancing Act." Kennedy tapped the table. "You might think about talking with activists Noel Day and James Freedan about how a Hicks victory would definitely mean a lawsuit against the school board."

"Would voters truly see a lawsuit as a consequence of Hicks, or an act of aggression from sore losers the Left?" Jamie's brow marred with thought.

"Just a suggestion, Fraser, I'm not the journalist." Kennedy raised his hands defensively.

"I think we need ye, Senator Kennedy." Jamie's face softened toward the man. "Yer Irish, and Catholic, a man who is well connected in the Irish-American neighborhoods most affected by busing. The people ken ye, and love ye, they need to feel like someone who's one of them would put their bairns in school wi' black children as well."

"My children are in New York." Kennedy blushed, stuttering. "I can't send them to a Boston public school."

"I'm no recommending a large change for yer family or the like." Jamie shook his head. "I ken yer concerned about the threats on yer family's safety. Just come ou' in support of White on a more public stage, the people, even the lean-ins will follow ye!"

Kennedy sat back and blinked down at his empty plate.

"I'll have my brother, Ted, publicly endorse White." Kennedy looked up.

"Why not you, Bob?" Healy frowned.

"Yer concerned about becoming tied up in a local matter." Jamie studied the senator. "Yer eyes are set on a bigger stage, aye?"

Kennedy gave Jamie a fierce look and then eased, regarding both men with a flicker of doubt.

"I don't know, boys." His shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure it's my year." He gave Jamie a thoughtful glance. "But I'm not sure it isn't my year either." Kennedy's blue eyes sparkled; he stood and threw his napkin and a wad of bills onto the table. 

"You'll have Ted speak out about White, Bob?" Healy stood and shook Kennedy's hand. "A Kennedy endorsement could really boost his numbers."

"I will." The senator nodded and gave Healy a warm smile. He turned to Jamie. 

"I like you, Fraser." Kennedy shook the Scot's hand with the grip of a fellow warrior. "You're a man I want on my side." The politician's piercing presence bored into Jamie as the men stood inches from one another, he felt a familiar spark like his spirit recognized its kin.

"Likewise, Senator Kennedy." Jamie gave the man a small smile and tipped his head respectfully. He understood why there was a feeling in men's guts when they encountered this leader that made them want to bend knee and swear their fealty to him on their swords.

Kennedy wave and slipped out of the Green Dragon, turning heads where ever his mystical presence moved.

"We would have this in the bag if Kennedy would publicly endorse White like you said." Healy grunted.

"He's running, Healy." Jamie murmured, watching the world outside the restaurant tilt its energy toward the senator as he crossed the street. "That man will verra likely become president."

***

"Okay." Brianna unbuckled her seat and stepped out of the station wagon. "Remember what I told you about parallel parking, look over your shoulder, got it?"

"I did it perfectly between yer wee garbage cans twenty times, Brianna!" Ian scowled. 

"If you fail this test I'm going to kill you!" She growled, slamming the door shut and following her cousin into the stark, florescent lit DMV office.

"And if I pass ye owe me a sundae at Revere's Burgers!" Ian grinned foolishly.

"Sure." Bree slid into a badly scuffed blue plastic chair and folded her arms. "You're driving."

"Done!" Ian lifted his head proudly and stood in line.

The cold room was mostly empty with one man holding a stack of documents coughing in the corner. The hideous florescent lights above them buzzed and the walls were littered with fliers and bright posters advocating for road safety and Smokey the Bear. 

"Next." A grey-faced, haggard woman with sunken eyes called from the desk in a dull, monotone voice.

"It's my turn, Brianna!" Ian squawked. "Wish me luck?"

"Break a leg, genius!" She gave him a thumbs up.

Ian frowned, confused by this expression and followed an older, balding man in a rumpled brown pinstripe suit out the front door and into the station wagon.

Brianna stood by the large glass window and stared nervously out at her cousin as he got into the driver's seat. She bit her lip as Ian confidently turned over the ignition in the vehicle as the man buckled into the passenger's seat and took out his clip board. 

Bree could see that Ian was saying something to the man, who responded with such a look of revulsion that she could only imagine her cousin had just described some horrible 18th century disease.

"Jesus, Ian," She growled, kicking the baseboard. "Just shut up and take your test!"

The station wagon jolted backwards and the man's clip board flew up into the air.

"Oh shit." Brianna pressed her hands to the glass and gasped as the vehicle skidded wildly out of the parking lot and flew down the road.

She flung herself back into the ugly plastic chair and chewed her nails.

Twenty minutes later the station wagon rolled gracefully back into the parking lot and swanned into the parallel parking place as if the cones had allotted a football field of room. 

Utterly astonished, Bree ran out of the DMV as Ian leaped out of the station wagon and the test proctor staggered out the other door.

"I passed!" Ian beamed, scooping up his cousin and whirling her about.

"Be safe out there." The proctor handed Ian his paper slip and wobbled back into the DMV, looking green in the gills.

"How did you possibly pass when that DMV worker looks like you ran him through the dryer?" Brianna whispered, elbowing Ian in the ribs.

"He told me I'd used up all my mistakes when we ran ow'er a squirrel!" Ian shrugged. "I had to do everything perfectly after that, so I did!"

"You made roadkill during I driving test?" Bree wrinkled her nose. "Well I guess that's not necessarily breaking any rules..."

"I didna mean to hit the wee thing." Ian frowned thoughtfully. "Can ye eat a _roadkill_, then, cousin?"

"Gross! No way!" Brianna lead him back inside the building and waited to get his temporary license.

Ian was confused when he was instructed to stand in front of a length of hanging blue fabric.

"No, sir, stand on the line please." The dull clerk pointed to the line and then walked toward the desk. Ian moved to follow her. "Sir!" The woman sighed exasperatedly. "Back on the line, sir!"

"Oh shit, we haven't done the picture thing yet." Brianna muttered under her breath. "Ian!" She yelled from the seats. Ian's head snapped up at her. She strode over to where he stood. 

"Stand right there and smile ok?" Bree growled at him through gritted teeth.

"I dinna ken what that lady is asking me to do!" Ian's face was twisted with frustration.

"She's going to take your picture, ok?" She shoved Ian back onto the line. "Like you know the ones hanging in the house? The images of people?"

"Oh Christ!" Ian squeaked. "Will it hurt?"

"No, dummy, you can't feel it!" Brianna held out her hands. "Just stay right there and smile, ok?"

Ian looked like he was going to bolt for the door. Bree flashed her teeth in a big fake smile at him and pointed to her mouth.

Baring his teeth awkwardly at the clerk, Ian stood still.

"Look at the camera, please." The monotone voice requested.

A great flash caused Ian to jump out of his skin. Giving a cry like a wounded bird, he clapped his hands over his face and ran toward Brianna.

"Jesus, Mary and Bride, I've gone blind!" He screeched, colliding with his cousin.

"Open your eyes!" Brianna grabbed his face. Ian blearily looked at his cousin. 

"Ye look like a square of burning light, Brianna!" Ian mourned. "I wilna see again!"

"Keep blinking, Ian, you'll be fine." She shook her head. "Did we get the picture?" She looked at the clerk who was making a funny face.

"I need a smoke break." The woman sighed and disappeared from behind the counter, tossing the temporary, photo-less printed license at the obstreperous pair.

"Oh, there ye are, cousin." Ian blinked. 

"Welcome back, Major Tom." Brianna rolled her eyes.

"I'm ready for ice cream, then!" He perked up.

"You earned it, I guess." Brianna shrugged, unable to resist the unflagging joy radiating from her cousin.

***

"Auntie Claire, look!" Ian brought in a stack of envelopes into the kitchen.

"What is it Ian?" I set down my coffee and walked out of the kitchen to where Ian was hurriedly unwrapping a letter.

"It's my driver's license!" Ian cried excitedly, holding up the laminated card.

Brianna touched down at the bottom of the staircase. "Your license came?" She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. "Mazel tov." She pushed past us and went into the kitchen for some coffee.

"Is this my first picture then, Auntie Claire?" Ian held the card up to me, his brow quirked.

"I suppose it is!" I smiled. "Let me see!"

Next to his height, weight, and birth date, all written to match his false passport, a blue-background photo was printed on the left side of the card.

I frowned.

The image was mostly of Ian's open mouth with a well-lit view into his nostrils. His eyes were white dishpans of surprise and his forehead was obscured by the unflattering angle of his tilted chin.

"Oh dear." I handed the license back to Ian. "I suppose we'll have to take a better picture of you another time, Ian."

"No thank ye!" Ian shook his head. "I dinna think wee _pictures_ agree with me!"

"Definitely not!" Brianna said, having looked over my shoulder at the unfavorable license photo.

She walked down the hall with her coffee, cackling and howling with mirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for hanging with me! I'm nearly done writing [ The Tory and the Spy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647373/chapters/54128992) which has held me up a little from updating this one, but if you like my writing at all I'd love to get your feedback on that story too! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Ok Bowie fans... I know Major Tom was released in 1969, so Brianna wouldn't know it yet, but the reference just made me crack up.


	27. Fenway Park, October 1, 1967

"No, your procedure is not emergent Mrs. Carlisle, but it is highly advisable-" I held the receiver of the phone to my face. "But you can listen to the Red Sox game on the radio as you recover, Mrs. Carlisle!" 

Jamie wandered into the kitchen, his nose buried in the paper.

"Yes, Elston Howard is a very handsome young man..." I looked up at Jamie who eyed me with a raised eyebrow. I gave him a defeated shrug. "But truly, Mrs. Carlisle, you mustn't reschedule your surgery for a baseball ga..."

"She hung up." My hand dropped with the phone. "That's my third surgery rescheduled this week."

Jamie grunted, his face turned back to the crinkled front-page of the _Globe_. "It would seem, Sassenach, the whole city has stopped to watch the Sox 'clinch the pennant.'" He quoted the unfamiliar phrase from the paper.

"That sounds painful." I set the phone back in its cradle.

"I believe it means they will have won the most baseball games in their league." The corner of Jamie's mouth curved into an unconscious smile. "They'll go on to play in the World Series if they beat the Twins this week."

"Jamie." An incredulous smile spread over my face. "You've secretly become a Sox fan!"

"Nay, I havena reduced myself to such clannish allegiances as these wee sports teams!" He grinned good naturedly. "Here, Sassanach, come look." Jamie held out the paper. I slid beside him and he wrapped his arm around my waist, holding the center spread with me tucked in the crook of his arm.

"This is Carl Yastrezemski." Jamie pointed to the photograph of a young man in a batting helmet at home plate, gripping a long baseball bat. The camera had captured a confident glint in the man's eye, his hips were turned and his arms extended: he was clearly swinging for the fences. Jamie's mouth twitched. "The lads at the _Globe_ call him Yaz."

"He looks rather chuffed with himself." I chuckled.

"Aye, he's a bonny hitter." Jamie smiled. "It's his first season and he's leading the team wi' the best batting average and the most home runs."

"Well, you would know something about wanting to do well on your first try." I rubbed Jamie's arm.

"I dinna care much for sports, Sassenach." Jamie said softly. "But perhaps if wee Yaz can bring the Sox the American League Championship, a first-time writer and a first time twentieth century Bostonian can make do as well, aye?"

"I wish I had known the Sox had captured your imagination, Jamie." I leaned my head against his chest. "I would have bought us tickets, but they've most certainly sold out."

"Dinna fash, _mo nighean donn._" A clever look sparkled in Jamie's eye. "Healy already has season tickets!"

"And we are invited?" I gasped.

"If ye'd like to go." He grinned. 

"Of course I would!" I kissed his chin.

As my arms encircled Jamie with a happy squeeze, the slumped form of Brianna wandered into the kitchen, her messy red hair a tangle no less confused than the expression on her face. She turned away from us, dumping coffee into a mug.

I broke from my husband and slid around the kitchen island to the coffee pot, pouring the remaining coffee into my cup and studying Brianna's crestfallen face.

"Everything alright, love?" I said quietly.

"Yeah, fine." She muttered.

"Did you close at Revere's again last night?" I prompted.

"Me and Ian, yeah." With a grunt, she grabbed cream from the fridge and a thick splash into her mug. "Don't worry, he didn't do anything embarrassing."

"Seems like something has got you upset, Bree." I took a careful sip of my coffee, not wanting to nudge her too much.

Her mouth twisted with discomfort. "I saw Roger in New York last month."

"Roger Wakefield?" I brightened.

"Yeah." Her face fell. "He said he planned on looking you guys up while he was here... but..."

"Oh dear." I placed a hand on her shoulder. "Did you have a falling out?"

"Sort of." I could see Brianna's jaw working like she was controlling her emotions. "I haven't heard from him in weeks."

"I'm sorry, Bree." I set down my coffee and gathered my daughter in my arms.

"Dinna fash yerself, Brianna." Jamie strode over to us. "Roger Mac is a good lad, he'll get o'wer himself and apologize for running his wee mouth."

"Well..." Brianna broke away from me, her cheeks flushed with heat. "It wasn't exactly an argument."

Jamie frowned.

"I mean..." Bree stuttered. "We did argue. But first, he asked me something I wasn't ready to hear." 

Jamie's face turned white and I quickly scooped up my daughter's hand and patted it comfortingly.

"And you know it doesn't matter what happened, we support you in what ever decision you make, Bree." I hoped my tone was enough to warn Jamie to stuff his eighteenth century sensibilities.

"What sort of a question did Roger ask ye, Brianna?" Jamie had clearly ignored me.

"It's not a big deal." Bree grunted.

"An offer of marriage is a verra 'big deal,' lass!" A Scottish growl was growing in the back of Jamie's throat.

"Jamie!" I exclaimed. "That's not what Brianna said, and it isn't our right to pry!"

"It isna a father's right to defend his daughter if she's jilted by a prospective husband?" My husband's cheeks reddened.

"You're not wrong, exactly." Bree's teeth were gritted, her face was a red as her father's. "Roger did asked me to marry him, but it was me who said I wasn't ready!"

We stood there in dumb silence.

"I can't start another relationship in this tangled web of bullshit." Brianna pushed past me and stormed out of the kitchen.

"Brianna!" Jamie shouted, lurching forward but I put my hand on his chest.

"Leave her be, Jamie." I said firmly. "You should not have pushed her."

"Christ." He rubbed his forehead, his ginger curls not yet set with pomade for the morning springing in a fringe about face.

"Why don't you take her to the Red Sox game, Jamie." I reached up and clasped my hands around the back of his neck.

"She's fair fashed wi' me, Sassenach." His irritation tumbled in his chest.

"You two do set each other off rather quickly." My mouth quirked with amusement. "Now, clearly Brianna feels something for Roger or she wouldn't be so upset, and if Roger really loves Brianna that won't be the end of it. It's only a matter of time."

"And ye'd like me to no push, aye?" A red eyebrow shot up. 

I nodded.

"I dinna like these offers of marriage going behind a father's back, ye ken." Jamie frowned warily. 

"I understand, Jamie, but it's no longer a common practice to get a father's permission -since in this time women aren't their father's property."

"So I wilna pay a dowry, then?" 

"No dowry, but twentieth century couples do often have expensive weddings and the bill does typically fall to the bride's parents." 

"Did ye have an expensive wedding, _mo chride_?" Jamie sidled in closer to me. "To Frank?"

"Frank and I eloped, actually." I smiled fondly. "We had a reception at the Reverend Wakefield's later and a honeymoon in Scotland. There was no need for decorations since the parish house garden was so lovely, and the cake was made by Mrs. Graham, I believe: it cost very little."

"If I canna express Brianna's dear value to my heart wi' an impressive gift of land or money to her husband, I at least hope to give her a fine wedding." Jamie said thoughtfully.

"I hadn't thought of a dowry in those terms." I murmured. "It always seemed so demeaning and transactional to me."

"Perhaps there is a little more dimension to your brutish highlander, aye?" Jamie buried his face in my neck and planted a kiss on the sensitive spot just below my ear.

"Unfortunately we haven't the time this morning explore these lovely dimensions," I squirmed out of his grasp, "I've got rounds at the hospital." I pecked his cheek and grabbed my coffee from off the countertop.

"We'll finish this up later then, aye?" Jamie shot me a knowing look.

"It's a date." I gave him a saucy smile over my shoulder and grabbed my keys off the counter.

I was making my way down the front stairs when I heard a low, Scottish voice reverberating from inside the house. The calm, measured tones of my daughter's muffled reply made me smile. I didn't have to be there and hold their hands to get them to make up: their connection ran deeper than just blood.

It was a comforting thought as I got in the car and headed toward what would eventually become my worst day at Boston General Hospital.

***

"Christ it's like a Roman amphitheater!" 

Jamie was frozen, standing stock still amid the swarm of Sox patrons filing down the stairway to their seats in Fenway Park. The stadium was alive with bodies: above the green expanse of the baseball field fans were swarming to their seats like a nest of ants.

"Hey, keep it moving, buddy!" A large man in a red letterman jacket covered with Red Sox buttons and patches elbowed Jamie in the back.

"Take my hand." Brianna reached up toward him from where she stood several steps down on the impossibly steep concrete stairs. While not impossible to navigate, climbing this precipice made Jamie feel as though the stadium seating was constructed at an angle that defied physics. Gratefully, he grasped his daughter's hand with a small smile and they worked their way down toward the first base line seats.

"Fraser!" Bob Healy stood as they made their way down to their row. The political editor was wearing a crisp white short-sleeved polo and Red Sox cap. "You made it! And this must be your daughter?"

"Brianna." She smiled, taking Healy's hand.

"What a pleasure to meet you, young lady!" The editor beamed as Brianna sank into her seat.

"I canna believe the size of this place!" Jamie sat next to his boss and settled in the hard-back stadium chair.

"Yeah, it's really somethin'." Healy picked up his paper cup with beer.

"Thank ye, for the tickets." Jamie said in a low voice.

"Don't mention it, Fraser." Bob shook his head. "Jan won't come with me anymore to Sox games, so you're really doing me a favor!"

"How are ye and Jan?" He asked quietly.

"Not great." Healy sighed. "She's staying with her mother."

Jamie grunted empathetically and the men were silent, watching the Fenway Park staff put the finishing touches on the infield in preparation for the game. 

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A gravelly, measured voice came over the announcer's microphone. "It's a beautiful day for baseball at Fenway Park!"

"Ah that must be the new guy, Sherm Feller!" Bree leaned toward her father.

"Yon loud disembodied voice, aye?" Jamie joked.

"Yeah, that would be the announcer." She tried to hold back her smile. "Baseball is one of those sports that's so slow, they have to have someone with a microphone telling you how to feel about it."

"Easy there, young lady!" Healy scolded jocularly. "A lot of people in this stadium are feeling pretty strongly about a Sox victory today!" 

The editor was right: the whole stands seemed electrified with intense energy. Fenway Park was packed with Sox fans dressed in red and white: their feverish chattering was a high, deafening drone of hopeful, exuberant tones.

"Aye, so if they beat the Twins today, do they clinch the pennant?" Jamie shot Brianna a humorous look. She shook her head with a smile, knowing her father had been waiting all day to throw in that twentieth-century phrase.

"This is it, the final showdown!" Healy gave a shiver of anticipation. "It's a close one, Fraser! No wonder everybody in Boston has forgotten about the mayoral race!"

"Oh yeah, wasn't that pretty much your whole life before the Sox started sweeping games?" Bree looked at Jamie.

"Aye," A smile curled on her father's face. "After Ted Kennedy endorsed Kevin White we thought the vicious rhetoric between Hick's supporters and White's would dominate the news."

"Honestly, I'm a political editor and I'd rather talk about the Sox than that mud-slinging shit show!" Healy snorted. "Oh, pardon my language, Miss Fraser!"

"It's Miss Randall, actually." Bree corrected. Bob swung his head at Jamie with a quizzical expression on his face but a roaring cheer interrupted any questions.

"And here's our boys, the Boston Red Sox!" Sherm Feller's amplified voice echoed across the park. An ear-splitting applause surrounded them as the fans leaped to their feet: shouting and yelling their support. Jamie could see the white-uniformed young men trot calmly from the dugout and run in tight formation behind the foul ball line, waving and saluting their fans.

"They're like soldiers off to war." Jamie murmured under his breath.

"I guess it's kind of the biggest battle of the year so far, since if they win, they'll go to the World Series." Bree quipped.

The Minnesota Twins took the field looking equally proud and confident, although the frenzied crowd did not respond with any of there earlier fondness. Boos and hisses echoed from the stands.

"Are people this crazy about sports in your time?" Brianna whispered to her father.

"We didna ha' anything like this." Jamie looked around with an expression of awe. "But we played games; ye shoulda seen yer great uncle Dougal play shinty!" He chuckled. "The Mackenzies always played dirty!"

"Shinty is kind of like soccer, right? Only with hockey sticks?" Brianna furrowed her eyebrows. 

"I dinna ken!" Jamie shrugged, tipping his head back and letting loose a clear, guileless laugh. 

"It's really nice." Brianna smiled, looking at him.

"Hmm?" The red-headed Scot tipped his head toward his daughter, thinking he hadn't heard her.

"I'm just saying," She blushed. "It's nice that you can laugh about all the stuff you're unfamiliar with here. I don't think I would be that brave about experiencing an entirely new version of reality."

"Och, yer a brave lass already, Brianna." Jamie touched her elbow. "I ken you would do the same in my place; yer like yer mother in that way."

"Ladies and gentlemen," crackled the announcer, "please remove your hats for the National Anthem."

Jamie doffed his wide-brimmed grey fedora and copied Brianna as she placed her hand over her heart. Oddly, the formality that swept over the stadium in that moment was a the most familiar feeling he had experienced in the four months he had lived in 1967. As the horns and marching drums of the song's opening stanzas blared from the speakers, Jamie realized that twentieth century Americans had very few moments of the austere, structured declarations of loyalty and unity that made the people of his time feel more connected and part of whole. He wondered if this lack explained the solitary, unmoored feeling he sometimes experienced. Of course, he thought, Americans like their independence --but were they in fact, missing the feeling of being part of a bigger family?

A woman's voice rang out over the field.

_Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light_

_What so proudly we hailed by the twilight's last gleaming?_

Jamie's mind flickered back to the Wakefield's dining room table where Roger Mac had explained the War of 1812, when the British had attempted to reclaim their newly independent daughter colony. Had he stayed in his own time, the moment this song recalled would come to pass in his ninety-first year. 

_Who's broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight_

_O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?_

A man Jamie's age was standing in front of him with a neat knot tied in his suit jacket where an arm would be. Jamie felt his heart squeeze as the man lifted his other hand in a clear motion to wipe his eyes: could this man have lost his arm in Claire's second Great War? 

_And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,_

_Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,_

Roger Mac had explained America's wars: the ones to cleave, the one to hold together, and the ones claiming to protect cause of liberty abroad with varying degrees of efficacy. Were these moments of trial the glue of unity that bound Americans together? Could the light of bombs and rocks be for these people their illuminating glimpse of connectedness?

_Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave,_

_O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?_

The question echoed in Jamie's brain: would the crushing disappointments of a war like Vietnam change the answer to the remaining question of that song? Could a nation of such disparate factions still join under one flag? 

A sincere, resounding cheer seemed to assure Jamie that at least on this evening in Boston, a city of people from different economic, social and ethnic backgrounds could be unified over a simple game. That had to count for something.

"Play ball!" 

The Sox' starting infielders eagerly trotted out to their positions on the baseball diamond as the outfielders ran to place on the expanse of grass. A young, lanky man stood on the pitcher's mound, pensive and moving with graceful, swinging motions of his arms to keep him calm and loose.

"Alright, Fraser, that's Jim Lonborg pitching." Healy explained. "He's had a great ERA all season, I doubt Williams is going to take him off the pitcher's mound tonight."

"ERA means..." Brianna started

"Earned Run Average." Jamie smiled. "I ken. Lonborg is the one the lads say performs better on the road than he does here at Fenway?"

"Yeah, I heard he's staying in a hotel this weekend rather than at home out of superstition." Healy smirked. "Wants to feel like he's out on the road for good luck!"

"He'll need more than luck to beat the Twins." Brianna said. "He's 0-3 against them this year!"

"We got sloppy with the Twins this year, but now it's either us or them, last man standing." Healy took a pull of his beer.

As the first batter for the Minnesota Twins stepped up to the plate, the fans seated nearest to home plate took great relish in jeering and shouting all manner of 'hey batter' chants and insults.

"That's why I always get seats on the first base line." Healy scoffed. "Those noisy goons around home plate drive me crazy!"

From their position just north of the dugout, they could see the handsome starting batter for the Twins, the rugged, dark haired Zoilo Versalles. 

"Alright, start us off strong Lonborg!" Healy shouted. "Come on!"

Jamie bit his tongue; he hadn't expected such a slow-paced activity to feel so tense. Taking a deep breath, Lonborg reared back and lobbed a pitch that slammed into the catcher's mitt with a thick whuphf.

"STEEERIKE!" The umpire chirped. The crowd cheered.

Versalles grinned nervously and stepped back from the plate, tapping his black cleats with the thick end of the wooden bat in mindless habit. The crowd hushed as the batter stepped back into the box and crouched, poised to swing. Lonborg's eyes narrowed. He threw one a little high but Versalles chanced it, his big muscular arms releasing like a spring as he chipped up a fly ball that drifted lazily up toward left field where Carl Yastrzemski took two effortless steps and snapped it up easily.

"Easy out!" Healy shook his fist with excitement. "That's how we clean 'em up, boys!"

"Are you getting the hang of what's going on?" Bree whispered.

"If they catch yon ball before it touches the ground he's out?" Jamie asked, careful not to miss an opportunity to connect with her. Even though the answer had been simple enough to deduce.

"Yeah." She nodded. "And there's three outs before they switch turns batting."

Lonborg struck out the next batter, giving every appearance of a short first half of the inning when a bulky batter stepped up to the plate, his thick, tree-trunk arms whipping the bat around like a toothpick.

"Damn if it isn't Hammerin' Harmon Killebrew!" Healy thumped the armrests of his seat anxiously. "The guy's hit 44 home runs this year --he's tied for most homers in the league!"

"I think you could write a sitcom about these guys, Healy!" Brianna laughed. 

"Hammerin' Harmon is certainly quite a character!" Bob grinned. 

A strange motion on Jamie's right caught his eye. Two men in black suits were standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning their arms on the railing parallel to the row in which Bob, Jamie and Brianna sat. For the first few batters, Jamie had mostly ignored the men, but now, their sidelong glances caught his attention.

Careful not to make eye contact, Jamie swiveled his body so he could see them while keeping his eyes on the pitcher's mound. Where they looking at Brianna? Or Healy?

Lonborg threw a fourth pitch intentionally outside the range of Hammerin' Harmon's powerful bat and walked him to first base.

Healy turned to Jamie and Brianna. "Hey, you kids want anything? This section has a wait staff."

"I don't mind getting up, actually." Brianna started to stand. "I'm thinking of getting a hot dog, want one, Da?" 

"Why don't I come wi' ye?" Jamie stood quickly.

"No, please." A tender look spread across Brianna's face that made Jamie's chest ache. "I really don't want you to miss anything -this is your first baseball game, after all!"

"I really only came to be wi' ye, _mo leannen_." Jamie said softly. A smile teased the corner of his mouth.

"It's ok, I got it." She started sliding out of the aisle. "Ketchup and mustard?" 

"Aye." Jamie nodded and sat down.

"You're lucky." Healy murmured as Jamie settled back into his seat.

"For having a daughter who will fetch me wee baseball foods?" He gave Bob a facetious smile.

"She seems like a good kid!" The editor elbowed his associate. "You did ok, Fraser."

"Actually I didna raise her." Jamie's mouth twisted.

"I was wondering about the whole 'Randall' thing..." Healy looked at him.

"It wasna safe for Claire and Brianna in Scotland." Jamie fumbled for the words to explain his circumstances to a close friend like Healy. "I ha' to send Claire back to her first husband, or risk their lives. We've only been back together as a family since May."

"Jesus." Bob studied Jamie's face. "I would have never guessed the three of you spent so long apart."

"I'm thankful for every day I have wi' them." Jamie's eyes darted back to the bottom of the steps where the two men had been standing.

They were gone.

Jamie was halfway jolted out of his seat when Bob pressed his arm.

"Easy, Fraser." He said in a low voice. "I saw them too."

"Brianna!" The Scot growled under his breath.

"I doubt they're after her." Healy whispered. "It's more likely they're here to watch you and me."

"Who are they?" Jamie snapped. "What quarrel would they have wi' us?"

"I've known for a while that I'm on the FBI watchlist." Healy shrugged.

"The FBI?" Jamie's mouth dropped open. "Your own government?"

"J. Edgar Hoover isn't a fan of the political team at the Globe." Healy shook his head. "Thinks we're a bunch of dirty commies."

"But neither you nor I have ever supported communists themes or authors...?" Jamie sputtered.

"It's our critique of the war that's got the little pervert's eye trained on us. And our willingness to share the perspective of Civil Rights organizers, particularly those who have edgier connections." Bob shrugged. "The guy's obsessed with puzzling out links and connections among the people he's suspicious of: if you so much as talk to somebody who knows somebody else on his list, all his crazy bells go off."

"Christ." Jamie's hand went to his forehead. "At a rally a few weeks ago, Louise Day Hicks called me 'Red Jamie!'"

"Ha! At least it fits!" Bob pointed to his colleague's bright ginger locks.

"I canna let those men around my daughter!" Jamie launched himself from his seat and leaped up the steep concrete stairs toward the exit.

"Fraser, wait! Don't talk to them!" Bob called after him, but the Scot was gone.


End file.
